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APPLETONS’ 


[50 CtS, 


PowN AND Country Library 



A QUEEN OF 
:URDS AND CREAM 

By DOROTHEA GERARD 

Author of Orthodox, Lady Baby, etc. 
author of A Sensitive Plant, Reata, The Waters of Hercules, etc. 



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j A QUEEN 

\ 

CURDS AND 


OF 

CREAM 


i 


V 

p 

drv, V>rv-G 

"5 ’ 

DOROTHEA GERARD 

AUTHOR OF ORTHODOX, LADY BABY, ETC. 
JOINT AUTHOR OF A SENSITIVE PLANT, REATA, 
THE WATERS OF HERCULES, ETC. 


/ 




nA 




NEW YORK 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 

1892 






\ 

) 

/ 


Copyright, 1892, 

By D. APPLETON AND COMPANY. 






Printed at the 
Appleton Press, U. S. A. 


f\ 


•^S'> \ 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE INHERITANCE. 

On an April afternoon of the year 1880, three men 
were holding a serious and somewhat perplexed consulta- 
tion in the best bedroom of the ^ Golden Sun.’ The ‘ Golden 
Sun ’ was the only inn of Glockenau, and Glockenau was 
an Austrian mountain village. 

The best bedroom in question had a carpetless floor of 
clean scrubbed deal boards, a low ceiling supported by 
dark wooden rafters, whitewashed walls adorned with a 
few glaring prints of Saints, and, in one corner, a bracket 
bearing a figure of the Madonna with a bunch of blue 
hepaticas in a green marbled earthenware jar at its foot. 

The two small square windows stood wide open, the 
well-starched white curtains being pinned back, as though 
the room were gasping for breath. A little while ago the 
atmosphere in here had been oppressive; it was heavy 
still with the scent of wax candles that had not long been 
extinguished, of violets that had faded in the stifling air, 
of a censer that had been swung and of which the fumes 
were now slowly floating out into the village street. The 
bed, a primitive construction of painted deal, had been 
dragged into the center of the room. A black cloth cov- 
ered it ; it was bare now of all but a few crushed violet- 
heads, but the cloth was disordered and the indenture on 
the pillow showed that a head had pressed it not long ago. 
There were marks of heavy hob-nailed boots clearly printed 
off on the white deal boards, leading from the bed to the 


2 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


door. They were the footsteps of the coffin bearers ; for 
scarcely an hour ago a man had been carried from this 
room to his grave. Pine-needles and single flower-petals 
which had been shaken from the funeral wreaths still 
strewed the floor. 

The event had caused great stir in the village. It was 
only six days ago that the Stellwageit^ which lumbered up 
to the door of the ‘ Golden Sun ’ every evening, and which 
generally lumbered on again as empty as it had come, had 
brought two unexpected visitors to Glockenau : an elderly 
gentleman and a young girl, his daughter. They had been 
bound for a further point, but the father had been taken 
seriously ill between this station and the last and could 
proceed no further. He leant heavily on his daughter as 
he descended from the Stellwagen, and but for the stout 
arm of the landlord, who recovered from his astonishment at 
the sight of so unusual a visitor just barely in time to come to 
his assistance, he would assuredly have fallen to the ground. 
The doctor, summoned in haste from the town, pronounced 
it to be a case of paralysis ; neither did it appear to be a 
first stroke. The stranger’s constitution was obviously 
undermined, and from the first there had been little hope 
of recovery. He lingered on for four days, unremittingly 
watched over by his daughter. On the evening of the 
fourth day he died. It was his closed coffin which had 
been carried out of this room an hour ago. 

The funeral was over. The three men now drawn round 
the table in deep debate had all been present at it ; one of 
them had in fact conducted it, for the village priest was of 
the trio. The two others were the landlord of the inn and 
the notary commissioned by the nearest Bezirksgericht with 
the execution of all requisite legal formalities. 

Though neither the landlord nor the priest wore the 
peasant dress, both were unmistakably peasants. The 
landlord was an overgrown boy of about fifty, under whose 
chubby chin the bib of a pinafore would somehow have 
appeared more in place than the satin cravat which cov- 
ered his breast. His face had been scrubbed that morn- 
ing, at least as energetically as any of the deal boards in 
his scrupulously clean house, and his hair had been so 


THE INHERITANCE. 


3 


generously oiled and so conscientiously combed that the 
marks of the horn-teeth were still clearly visible, like the 
marks of a rake on a well-kept garden-bed. Altogether so 
exhaustive had been the attention paid to his personal ap- 
pearance that day, that some of his best friends had failed 
to recognize him at the funeral. As the master of the 
house, in which a stranger — and obviously not a common 
stranger — had been so condescending as to breathe his last, 
he had felt this elaborate toilet to be both his duty and his 
right. 

The cast of the priest’s features had originally, no doubt, 
been very much the same as those of the landlord. It 
was the usual peasant type of that district of Austria — a 
succession of round curves repeated in eyebrows, eyes, 
and chin ; a short, broad nose, a wide mouth that did not 
seem to have the faculty of closing tightly, and which 
made up for its ungainly width by its readiness to smile 
on the smallest provocation. These features the two men 
had in common, but here the likeness ceased. No one 
could suspect the landlord of ever having been hungry in 
his life, while to look at the priest was to doubt whether 
he had ever had quite enough to eat. The result was a 
curious sort of refinement of the originally rudely cut feat- 
ures, a falling-in of the aggressively round curves, a toning 
down of that all too healthily bucolic complexion, a shrink- 
ing away of the superfluous flesh on the massive figure. 
Old age had done the rest. Forty years ago the priest’s 
hands had very likely been as plump and certainly had 
been as clumsy as those which the landlord had now 
planted with widely outspread fingers upon either knee, 
and his hair in all probability had once been as bushy and 
brown ; the hands were not smaller now and the hair had 
not become of finer fibre, but the former had bleached al- 
most to whiteness and shrunk to a truly pathetic thinness, 
and the hair had grown so spare and so silvered that it lay 
with the dignity of a halo round those sunken temples. 
Even the awkward peasant slouch of the man of fifty had 
in the man of seventy become a venerable stoop. 

The notary had nothing in common with his two com- 
panions ; he was small and nimble, with a little bit of a yel- 


4 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


low sharp-nosed face that might have been fashioned out of 
a scrap of shrivelled leather. There was something of the 
cheerfulness, the decision, and rapidity of a sparrow about 
his manner and his movements ; also something of a spar- 
row’s inquisitiveness. He had entered the inn on the 
morning after the stranger’s death, and, in his character of 
representative of the law, had put the legal seal upon the 
possessions of the deceased. One large travelling-trunk, 
on whose surface it would have been hard to discover an 
inch not covered by the remnants of red or yellow station- 
label, and a leather portmanteau which had evidently seen 
better days formed the whole that was visible of these pos- 
sessions. The seals had now been removed in the presence 
of the priest and the landlord, who acted as witnesses. 
By rights the daughter of the deceased should have been 
present at this act, but the notary had a long drive before 
him, and so, after having waited what was considered a 
reasonable time for the return of the young girl whom they 
had left in the churchyard, it was decided to go through 
the formalities without further delay. 

It had not taken very long to muster the contents of the 
trunk and portmanteau ; they were few, but they were in- 
congruous and surprising. Although the stranger had 
evidently come from far, he had apparently been travel- 
ling with no more than two shirts, which, though repeatedly 
darned and patched, were of the softest and most delicate 
fabric. The boots he had had upon his feet when he stag- 
gered from the Stellwagen to the inn door bore the mark 
of a first-class Vienna shop, and yet neither in box nor 
portmanteau was a second pair to be discovered. Again, 
there was a dressing-case with silver-topped though badly 
chipped crystal bottles, one of which was half filled with 
the then so popular Chypre scent. 

But other things more perplexing still had come to the 
light of day: — several packs of gold-edged but well-fin- 
gered playing cards, for instance ; an old blue military 
looking coat, of the shape of those worn by the hussar 
officers, but from which the gold cording had long since 
been removed, and which to all appearances had latterly 
served as a smoking-jacket. The small sparrow of a notary 


THE INHERITANCE. 


5 


was beside himself with excited curiosity ; he had spent the 
last twenty minutes in hopping backwards and forwards be- 
tween the trunk and the table, poking his beak, as it were, 
into every hole, and chirruping with delight over each new 
object which he laid out before the amazed eyes of the 
two witnesses. Out of the last recesses of the portmanteau 
he had unearthed his most important prize, a heavy gold 
seal-ring set with a singularly handsome agate on which 
was engraved a coat of arms surmounted by a nine-pointed 
crown. There could be no doubt about the number of the 
points, they had been counted at least half-a-dozen times 
over by each of the three men in the room. The ring had 
been passed from hand to hand and now lay on the table, 
gazed at by three pairs of awe-stricken and somewhat 
incredulous eyes. A pause of deep reflection was taking 
place. 

‘ That would mean,’ the notary had said, ^ of course only 
supposing that the ring belonged to him — that would mean 
that he was a Count.’ And then had followed the pause. 

‘ And are you quite sure, Herr Prell,’ the priest timidly 
inquired, recovering after a minute, ‘ Are you sure that it 
is only Counts that use nine-pointed crowns ?’ 

‘ Five for the nobility, seven for a Baron, nine for a Count,’ 
briskly responded Herr Prell, becoming himself again. 

‘ But a Count with one pair of boots ? ’ said the landlord, 
with a ponderous head shake. ^Are there Counts of that 
sort ? ’ 

‘There are Counts of all sorts,’ answered the notary 
cautiously. He was not quite so familiar with the subject 
as he wished his companions to believe. ‘ Besides, I said 
if the ring belonged to him. A word with the daughter 
will clear that up. It is peculiar that she should have des- 
ignated her father at the inquest as plain Emil Eldringen. 
But stop, there are the papers ; we may find all we want 
to know there,’ and the notary suddenly swooped down 
upon some bundles of papers tied up with narrow yellow 
ribbon which a connoisseur would have recognised as hav- 
ing come off packets of Havanna cigars. 

He could make nothing of the first bundle. Obviously 
they were all letters, and old letters too, to judge by_ the 


6 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


date, the only thing he could decipher ; they might have 
been French, Spanish, or Italian, for aught he knew. He 
did not wish to commit himself beyond asserting that they 
were not German. When the old priest had, after a little 
hesitation, expressed his belief that neither were they Latin, 
it appeared that the chances of enlightenment were ex- 
hausted, for the landlord contented himself with respect- 
fully laying back the letters on the table. He had been to 
school, it is true, but that was forty years ago, and every 
art requires to be kept in practice if it is not to fall into 
decay. 

The notary took up a second bundle and untied it ; 
more letters, but German characters this time. He looked 
at the first and gave another chirrup of satisfaction ; it 
was addressed quite plainly to ‘ Count Emil Eldringen.’ 

‘ At the risk of causing inconvenience,’ the letter began, 
‘ I must request you to lose no further delay in repaying 
to me the sum of six hundred florins which you borrowed 
from me last autumn, on the expressed stipulation that I 
was to be reimbursed before spring.’ With a face grown 
suddenly attentive, the notary took up a second letter. 
This one began with ^Geehrter Herr Graf ! ’ and was signed 
with an unmistakably Jewish name, but the drift was much 
the same and the sum referred to was larger. He took up 
a third, a fourth letter, more still, and cast a glance into 
each, and then he leant back in his chair and whistled ; the 
letters were all from unsatisfied creditors, and they all bore 
quite recent dates. 

‘ There seems to be as little doubt about the title as 
about the — the embarrassed circumstances,’ pronounced 
Herr Prell, having cast about in his mind for an expression 
which in presence of that nine-pointed crown would ap- 
pear sufficiently respectful. 

The landlord’s ruddy face had gradually become clouded. 
At every fresh quotation with which Herr Prell had regaled 
his auditors he had changed the position of his outspread 
fingers upon his knees. He began to wonder how much 
the articles in the trunks would fetch, supposing it should 
come to a compulsory sale. 

‘But the girl, the — the Countess very likely had the 


THE INHERITANCE. 


7 


ready money about her/ he said aloud, following his own 
train of thought. 

‘ Very likely, and besides people don’t travel about like 
snails with all their worldly goods packed on their backs ; 
all I assert is that the gentleman does not appear to have 
been prosperous ; but, as I say, a word with the daughter 
— there she comes at last,’ and the notary sprang from his 
chair and gave one hop towards the door. Before he had 
time to give a second hop the door was opened and a tall 
young woman advanced into the room. 

Of the three men present the notary was, probably, the 
only one who had any distinct idea about rising in the 
presence of ladies. In this case he happened to be on his 
feet already, so that it was not owing to his example that 
the priest and the landlord, after exchanging a* glance of 
hurried consultation, simultaneously rose from their places. 
More likely they were acting under the influence of that 
signet ring on the table, or, more likely still, it was the 
bearing of the girl herself which influenced them. 

She was a magnificent figure, tall, broad-shouldered, de- 
veloped to perfect womanhood, and with limbs round which 
the flimsy stuff of her black gown clung just sufficiently to 
betray their perfect moulding. Had she not been haggard 
with watching and red-eyed with weeping her face would 
probably be beautiful, — so much dawned upon the three 
men who, until this moment, had had no more than cur- 
sory and unsatisfactory glimpses of the stranger. It may 
have dawned upon them too, though more dimly, that it 
was not the weeping and the watching alone which had 
given to the face the peculiar stamp it wore. Those lines 
on the white forehead and about the tightly closed lips had 
not been drawn by a grief that was only two days old. 

It was scarcely to be called a youthful face, there was 
nothing either girlish in the expression or uncertain in the 
glance ; rather it was the face of a woman who had learnt 
a lesson and borne a burden far beyond her years. That 
the burden had not crushed her was to be guessed by the 
bearing of her head, that she did not intend it to crush her 
was to be read in the expression of the eyes. Even from 
under their swollen lids these eyes looked out upon the 


8 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


world with a glance of steady defiance which millions of 
hot tears had not sufficed to quench. Of the eyes there 
could be no doubt that they were beautiful, — of a clear 
flawless grey set in a distinct rim of black which enhanced 
their clearness, and, being distinguishable only under a full 
light, made them appear darker than they actually were. 
The eyebrows were almost straight and perfectly black, 
the thick, smooth hair, which she wore in a heavy coil upon 
her neck, of the very deepest shade of pure brown. The 
hand with which she held the hat which she had removed 
from her aching head as she mounted the staircase was of 
a noble shape, but in its coloiu* and its general appearance 
it showed that it was a hand which had worked in the lit- 
eral sense of the word. 

At sight of the three men awaiting her she stopped short 
and looked at each in turn with an astonished question in 
her eyes. They had not resumed their seats, and the 
priest and the landlord looked at the notary for assistance. 
Presently the notary came to the rescue; the reflection 
that he was in all probability standing in the presence of a 
real, born Countess had numbed him for a minute, but his 
eyes chanced to fall on a dam upon the sleeve of her black 
dress, and with the reflection that the Countess was badly 
off his confidence had returned. He explained the reason 
of his presence and that of his companions, and then the 
question which was torturing him came out with a burst 
that was no longer to be restrained. . He held the signet 
ring towards her. 

‘ Was that your father’s property ? ’ 

‘ Certainly it was his property.’ 

She spoke in a rich, low voice, looking down upon the 
little notary in undiminished surprise. 

‘Then his name was — his title — he was Count El- 
dringen ? ’ 

‘ That was his name, yes,’ said the girl indifferently. 

‘ And your name then is — your — ’ 

‘ Ulrica Eldringen.’ 

‘Countess Ulrica Eldringen?’ tentatively. ‘If your 
father was a Count you must be a — ’ 

‘ A Countess ; yes, I have that misfortune.’ 


THE INHERITANCE. 


9 


At that moment her glance fell upon the empty bed 
with its crumpled black cover and crushed flower-heads. 
She looked away with a shudder, closing her eyes for an 
instant. Then, as though by a strong effort of will, she de- 
liberately turned back her head and gazed steadily on the 
spot. 

The three men had required this respite to recover from 
the shock caused by the misapplication of the word ‘ mis- 
fortune.’ 

‘ What made you conceal the title at the inquest? ’ the 
notary presently asked. 

‘ I was asked for my father’s name, not for his title ; I 
gave his name, I supposed that was sufficient. If I had 
been proud of his title I would have given that too.’ 

With a shrug of his shoulders, Herr Prell abandoned 
that point. There was a whole string of questions which 
it was his duty as well as his delight to ask. She answered 
them briefly, with a touch of impatience. Had she any 
brothers or sisters? No. She was then the only child of 
the deceased? His only child. Was the widow living? 
No ; she had been dead for many years. 

‘ You are then the only person with a claim to the 
deceased’s property ? ’ concluded the notary, having reached 
the point towards which he had been working. 

She assented with a movement of her head. 

The notary cleared his throat. 

‘ I must call your attention to the fact that the property 
actually here present is of so slight a value that its equiv- 
alent in money would scarcely suffice to cover the cost 
of the funeral, or of other expenses incurred,’ he added, 
catching the anxious eye of the landlord. ‘ But doubtless 
there is other property elsewhere ? ’ 

' My father possessed no other property,’ said the girl, 
steadily, ‘ beyond the contents of those two boxes and the 
clothes he had on his back.’ 

‘ But surely property in some shape ? ’ 

‘ No property in any shape whatever.’ 

'But doubtless you are in possession of some ready- 
money!’ 

She took a shabby leather purse from her pocket, and, 


lO 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


Stepping up to the table, emptied out its entire contents. 
They consisted of a little over forty florins, in paper and in 
silver, besides a few copper-pieces. 

‘ This is every penny of the money I possess in the world,’ 
she said, speaking with unnecessary and almost harsh dis- 
tinctness. ‘ I presume that this will cover the cost of the 
funeral ? ’ 

There was something in the way she said it which made 
the three men shrink back, as though the words had been 
an accusation hurled in their faces, instead of the procla- 
mation of her own beggary. An undefinable sound, some- 
thing between a whistle and a distressed chirrup, escaped 
from between Herr Prell’s screwed-up lips, and the land- 
lord passed his hand recklessly through his hair, to the 
utter destruction of its well pomaded symmetry. The old 
priest was shaking his head pitifully, and tears of compas- 
sion stood in his eyes. 

‘ My child,’ he said eagerly, laying an unsteady hand upon 
the girl’s arm, ‘ do not let the thought of the expenses dis- 
tress you, the funeral need not cost anything ; I can ar- 
range it so that the expense is defrayed by the parish — we 
have the right, you know — ’ but here he stopped short, 
startled by the blazing eyes that were suddenly flashed 
upon him. 

‘ Do I look so much a beggar that you must offer me 
alms ? ’ she broke out, with fierce suddenness. ‘ Do you 
imagine that I could ever again eat or sleep if my father 
were lying in a pauper’s grave? Every penny — do you 
hear ? — every penny shall be paid ; and you need not try to 
deceive me, I shall find out what the customary price is, and 
I shall pay all, all, down to the last wax candle and the 
last bunch of violets — do you hear? Distressed? Who 
says I look distressed? Does this money here on the 
table suffice to cover the costs of the funeral or not? 
That is all I require to know.’ 

‘ Amply, amply ; it more than suffices,’ stammered the 
old priest, sinking back on to his seat. ‘ There is more 
than enough for the funeral ; but my child, my poor child, 
how are you to live ? ’ 

‘ By work,’ she answered briefly. ' And as for what I 


THE INHERITANCE. 


11 


owe you,’ she was now looking at the landlord, ' you too 
shall be paid, you need have no fear. Should the money 
not suffice, there is my father’s watch ; it is old, but I 
think the quality of the gold is good, and there are besides 
the silver-headed bottles in the dressing-case, which will 
fetch something, and in the worst case there is the ring. I 
presume that these things are mine now, since my father 
has left no other heirs, — or will be mine when this fact is 
proved ? ’ 

The notary cleared his throat again. ‘ With regard to 
this question of inheritance,’ he observed, * it is my duty to 
point out to you that the situation you are in is somewhat 
peculiar. I must explain to you that according to Aus- 
trian law there are two distinct fashions after which an 
inheritance can be entered on — the conditional and the 
unconditional. A person who declares himself to be the 
unconditional heir to the property of any person deceased 
becomes thereby liable for all claims left unsatisfied by said 
deceased and for all — ’ 

‘ Who says that my father has left unsatisfied claims ? ’ 
She glanced at the litter of things on the table, and per- 
ceiving the unfastened bundles of letters a deep-red stain 
mounted to her cheek. 

The notary appeared to collapse to half his size. ‘ It 
was impossible to read these letters even cursorily without 
concluding — ’ 

‘ And who gave you the right to read these letters ? ’ 

‘ It was my duty, I swear it to you ; any one of those 
papers might have been a will of the deceased, and to 
ascertain whether a will exists or not — ’ 

‘I understand; that will do.’ She bit her lip. ‘You 
can go on with your explanation.’ 

The notary proceeded to put her situation before her. 
Briefly it was as follows : She had the choice of becoming 
her father’s heiress conditionally or unconditionally. In 
the former case her father’s debts would indeed remain 
unpaid, but no one of his creditors would have the power 
to molest her ; she would be able to start on her new ex- 
istence, penniless indeed but unfettered. In the latter case 
she would have forfeited not only all she possessed at this 


12 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


moment, but also any fortune she might chance to possess 
in the future, — up to the exact extent of all claims still ex- 
tant against her father. 

She listened attentively to the explanation. ^Well?’ 
she said, when the notary had done speaking, opening her 
grey eyes full upon him. 

‘ I presume that your choice is made. It was merely as 
a matter of form that I felt it right to make the point 
clear.’ 

‘ Certainly my choice is made.’ 

‘You are right, it requires no reflection, I have never 
known a simpler case. When the liabilities amount to 
several thousand florins and the value of the property 
probably not to much over a hundred, it would indeed be 
madness — ’ 

‘ Do you call it madness ? I call it common honesty.’ 

The notary stared a little. ‘ You don’t mean to say that 
you — ’ 

‘That I intend to clear my father’s name of any re- 
proach that otherwise would rest upon it? Yes, that is 
what I mean to do ; I believe I am strong enough for this.’ 

‘ But what prospect — what remote chance — do you know 
what you are undertaking ? ’ cried Herr Prell, aghast. ‘ I 
believe I cannot have explained myself sufiiciently. I 
said — ’ 

‘ I know what you said ; the explanation was quite 
plain ; ’ and she repeated the statement he had made almost 
word for word. ‘ And my answer is that I wish to enter , 
on the inheritance unconditionally.’ i 

‘ But you can only do so if you are over age. I don’t 
believe that you are twenty-four years of age.’ j 

‘ I am nineteen, but I am of age before the law ; my | 
father took the necessary steps a year ago, when he had his j 
first attack. It can easily be proved.’ \ 

‘ All the same I entreat you to commit yourself to noth- 
ing until you have taken counsel with your relations.’ 

‘ I have no relations with whom I could take counsel.’ 

‘Your friends then, — every one has friends — ■ 

‘ I have none.’ j 

‘ But you will at least reflect.’ 


FANNY BADL. 


13 


‘Yes, reflect, my child, reflect,’ burst out the old priest, 
who had been listening in considerable bewilderment to 
the conglomeration of legal terms used, and had not been 
able to come to any more definite conclusion than that 
this evidently impetuous young woman was on the point 
of committing some act which Herr Prell considered fool- 
ish and which he therefore, on Herr Prell’s authority, ac- 
cepted as being foolish. ‘ Your father is in his grave and 
cannot be harmed by what people say, while you have 
your life before you.’ 

Again he stopped short, silenced by the flash of her 
eyes. 

The notary spoke again, and the old priest murmured a 
few more entreaties to ‘ reflect,’ but it altered nothing in 
the case. The girl adhered to her resolution. 

In this way it was that Ulrica Eldringen, aged nineteen, 
came to be declared the heiress of forty-two florins, some 
twenty and odd kreutzers in Austrian money, a gold 
watch, an engraved signet ring, six silver-topped crystal 
bottles, an old hussar uniform coat minus the cords, one 
travelling-trunk, one portmanteau, and various other arti- 
cles, valued all in all at between one hundred and twenty 
and one hundred and fifty florins. 

It was with this capital at her command that she had 
pledged herself to pay off the debts left by her father, 
and which amounted to a sum about half-way between 
three and four thousand florins. 


CHAPTER II. 

FANNY BADL. 

Somewhat more than twenty years oefore the day on 
which Ulrica Eldringen entered upon this her inheritance, 
the 17th Hussars were celebrating the advent of a new 
comrade, fresh from the capital. 

To the gallant officers who, for the last ten years, had 


14 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

been dozing away in their little provincial hole, Captain 
Emil Eldringen’s appearance was almost as startling as 
that of a brilliant meteor might be to drowsy eyes. Brill- 
iant was the adjective that best described him. Every- 
thing about him sparkled and shone and glittered so blind- 
ingly that it was by no means easy to make quite sure of 
how much depth lay beneath this bright surface. He was 
brilliantly vivacious, brilliantly gay, and was generally 
considered to be a brilliant conversationist, though even 
his most ardent admirers were apt to feel perplexed when 
asked to produce from their memory a specimen of his 
conversation. 

Added to all this Captain Eldringen was brilliantly hand- 
some. 

There was a mixture of races in him. Cast in a South- 
ern mould, he was coloured by a brush dipped in Northern 
tints. Graceful, supple, ardent as an Italian, he was yet 
golden-haired, blue-eyed, and fresh-coloured as an Anglo- 
Saxon. The elder Count Eldringen (South Tyrolese by 
origin) had, like Emil, served in the Austrian cavalry. 
Being passionately devoted to hunting, he had made vari- 
ous excursions to England, and from one of these excur- 
sions he had brought back a wife, a well-dowered and 
high-bom wife. She became the mother of one son and a 
daughter, and died before her children were grown up. 
The widower survived her for eight years, and had the 
satisfaction of seeing his daughter betrothed in a manner 
suitable to her rank, seeing that her fiance, besides the 
necessary hard cash, possessed an array of ancestors who 
positively lost themselves in the midst of antiquity. 

Emil was not yet provided for, but on his behalf the old 
Count had no anxiety; with his unusual share of good 
looks and the happy ease of his disposition he would only 
have to pick and choose among all the eligible brides who 
might happen to be marketable at the time when his 
thoughts should turn towards matrimony. As yet they did 
not turn that way. For the most successful of all the Don 
Juans then moving in Vienna society, life was very enjoya- 
ble as it was. Though the field of his triumphs was dif- 
ferent from that on which the great Macedonian king 


FANNY BADL. 


15 


gathered his laurels, yet, like Alexander, he could boast of 
never having been conquered in a battle. 

Some faint echo of his fame as an eater of hearts 
had reached even sleepy Ziegelheim, and served to add a 
zest to the airy sketches of Vienna society with which he 
enlivened the supper-table on the evening of his arrival. 
Presently, when he had done answering questions, he began 
to put some. What were the social resources of Ziegel- 
heim? How stood the chances of amusement! And, 
above all, who were Ziegelheim beauties ! 

‘ We have only got one beauty,’ answered one of the 
lieutenants, ' and that is Fanny Badl.’ 

‘Ah, and who is Fanny Badl!’ 

Fanny Badl, it appeared, was the daughter of one of the 
oldest sergeants in the regiment. ‘ But it is no use making 
up to her,’ was the universal verdict. 

‘ Why not ! ’ asked Emil. ‘ Is the old man such a Turk ! ’ 

‘ No, it’s the girl herself; she’s hopelessly well behaved.’ 

‘ She’s made of ice.’ 

‘No, of wood,’ said another, with the bitterness of an 
unsuccessful wooer, ‘ and precious tough wood, too.’ 

‘ Ice can melt and wood can burn,’ laughed Emil ; ‘ I 
must make her acquaintance to-morrow.’ 

‘ Take my advice, Eldringen, and leave it alone,’ said 
one of the older captains. ‘ We’ve all burnt our fingers 
at that pot. She’s too good for a plaything, and she 
knows it.’ 

‘ The holes that girl has made in our hearts,’ another was 
saying with a mock-tragical sigh, ‘ and in our purses ! The 
very carriage which I paid for white camelias last win- 
ter came near to ruining me. But Donnerwetter^ never so 
much as the tiniest smile of encouragement, and as for the 
chance of being granted even a five minutes rendezvous — ’ 

‘ Is any one inclined for a bet ! ’ asked Captain Eldringen, 
suddenly. 

He was looked at inquiringly. 

‘ I am ready to make a bet with any one here present 
that before this day month I shall have obtained a rendez- 
vous with Fanny Badl.’ 

‘ A meeting granted of her own free will ! ’ 

2 


1 6 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

‘ Certainly, of her own free will/ 

There was a minute’s hesitation. The company at the 
supper-table scanned the fine figure and handsome features 
of their new comrade somewhat uncertainly, as though 
weighing his chances of success. Then another figure 
seemed to rise before their mind’s eye. The elder captain 
was the first to shake his head, the lieutenants followed 
suit. 

‘ The bet is lost in advance,’ said the captain. * 

‘ That is my own lookout. Which of you is ready for 
the wager ? ’ 

It was evident that he was serious, and, after a little 
more parley, the sum was fixed and the bet duly recorded 
in the elder captain’s note-book. 

Emil’s expectations had been raised, and yet when he 
saw Fanny Badl — which he contrived to do on the very 
next day — he was forced to confess that they had not 
been raised unduly. In no Vienna drawing-room, nor be- 
hind the coulisses of any Vienna theatre, had he seen such 
a queenly figure, such heavy brown plaits, such liquid 
brown eyes, nor such pearly teeth. His interest in the un- 
dertaking deepened tenfold on the instant. Having recon- 
noitred the ground, he had come to the conclusion that a 
little prudence would be advisable at first. For the pres- 
ent there could be no doubt — strange as the fact might ap- 
pear to Emil — that her affections were actually centred on 
the young sergeant with the brown moustache and the sun- 
burnt face to whom she had been betrothed for two years 
past. She seemed to be quietly, though not passionately, 
attached to him — passion, indeed, appeared to lie very far 
from those tranquil brown eyes and the stately calm of that 
tall figure. 

More than half of the stipulated month had passed be- 
fore Captain Eldringen had the satisfaction to note the first 
troubled look in the liquid glance that met his, and the first 
tremulous blush upon the generally so serene cheek. Yet 
despite these symptoms it was too plain to Emil’s experi- 
enced eye that she was not going to surrender at discretion. 
The whole of the regiment was looking on, he knew, and 
pretty nearly the whole of Ziegelheim ; it surely could not 


FANNY BADL. 


17 


be possible that he, the spoilt child of Viennese society, 
should have found his match at last in this sergeant’s 
daughter ? 

Soon the original object he had had in view began to be 
lost sight of ; the month indeed was past, the bet won, the 
rendezvous obtained — more than one rendezvous — and yet 
Emil, though in the eyes of the world a conqueror, knew 
that he was in reality conquered. Presently he made an 
unpleasant discovery ; he discovered that he was losing his 
head. After all, he was barely thirty, and Fanny was very 
beautiful. He was even at moments visited by an idea 
which in his lucid intervals made him tremble for his 
reason : the idea of marrying Fanny, should it be impossi- 
ble to win her by any other means. Most likely the idea 
would have died a natural death had not the crisis been 
brought about by another man’s interference. This man 
was Sergeant Holzer, Fanny Badl’s betrothed. Holzer 
had hitherto been entirely passive. He was a steady, 
quiet, somewhat slow-thinking young fellow, deeply at- 
tached to Fanny. Captain Eldringen’s appearance on the 
scene had at first caused him no anxiety ; his confidence 
in Fanny was unlimited, and for long it did not occur to 
him that her affection for himself could be anything but as 
unshakable as his own feelings towards her. For about a 
fortnight past, however, his habitual quiet had assumed a 
different and more thoughtful character, while his manner 
towards the girl remained as gentle and affectionate as 
ever. Then, quite unexpectedly, one hot Sunday after- 
noon, Captain Eldringen, being alone in his room and en- 
gaged in framing a note to . Fanny, heard a resolute tread 
in the passage, saw the door opposite open and Holzer 
enter the room with a face which was livid with excitement. 
He did not immediately recognise the usually stolid ser- 
geant ; when he had done so the most natural thing would 
have been to suppose that he w’as drunk, but somehow 
this idea did not even occur to Captain Eldringen. He 
instinctively pushed away the note he had been writing and 
stood up to face the sergeant ; Holzer, having entered the 
room, had closed the door behind him and had then placed 
himself with his back against it. He was breathing fast 


1 8 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

and hard, and his lips twitched convulsively. He kept his 
right hand pressed over some object which bulged from 
the pocket of his blouse. He had neither knocked at the 
door nor given the military salute on entering. It was 
some minutes before he could subdue his panting breath 
sufficiently to be able to speak, and during these minutes 
Captain Eldringen waited very quietly in face of the other’s 
agitation ; he was beginning to guess what was coming. 

At last Holzer spoke : 

‘ I come from Fanny — ’ he said hoarsely, ‘ she has told 
me that she cannot marry me.’ 

Count Eldringen remained silent, waiting for more ; he 
knew that more must be coming. 

‘ It is you she loves, not me ; she has told me so ; that 
is why she cannot marry me. I have come straight from 
her. What do you intend to do ? ’ 

‘You are then no longer engaged to her?’ asked Cap- 
tain Eldringen, striving to speak steadily. 

‘ She has withdrawn her word, but I have not withdrawn 
mine. I have not given her up.’ 

‘ If she has withdrawn her word, you are no longer en- 
gaged to her ; you have therefore no right to ask my in- 
tentions.’ 

‘ I have not given her up,’ said the man doggedly. ‘ I 
ask because if your intentions are not honourable I intend 
to shoot you.’ He pressed his hand a little more tightly 
over the bulging object in his pocket ; his haggard eyes 
were upon the captain. 

Count Eldringen was the only lodger on this floor of the 
house, and the family who lived above had gone to the 
country for the day. The whole town was pretty well de- 
serted, for Sunday picnics were an institution at Ziegelheim 
and the day was cloudless. Not a moving figure was to 
be seen up and down the length of the little dusty street, 
and no sound came through the open window. The ser- 
geant and the captain were absolutely alone, and the cap- 
tain understood perfectly that the sergeant was desperate. 
Also, he had long ago recognised the shape of the object 
which bulged from the blouse. He had the good sense to 
perceive that, at this moment, he did not count as a cap- 


FANNY BADL. 


19 


tain nor the other as a sergeant, but that it was a question 
of man to man, and he had the generosity to accept this 
position on the instant. 

‘ Do you know that they are talking of her ? ’ Holzer 
was saying, ‘ of her and of you? They are making jokes, 
I heard them — whispering things about her, about her and 
you, I heard them, I heard them, I tell you ; it was that 
which sent me to her, I asked her and she told me that — 
what I have told you. And now I ask you. I have loved 
her for five years ; I can bear to give her up, but I cannot 
bear to see her disgraced. If you love her enough to make 
her your wife, I will give her up to you, but I will shoot 
you dead before you make a plaything of her.’ 

His voice broke a little, and Count Eldringen looked at 
him with an interest that was not unmixed with emotion. 
The passionate disturbance of the young sergeant’s face 
would have sufficed to stab a heart of stone, and Emil’s 
heart was by no means made of stone — rather of wax. 
The sight was new to him ; in the course of all his gay and 
glorious experiences he had never seen anything so over- 
whelmingly genuine as this ; it shook him and at the same 
time it enlightened him. His own passion seemed to catch 
fire at that of his rival ; seen by the light of this terrible 
grief, Fanny, the object of it, became in one instant ten 
times as precious and desirable, for Emil was peculiarly 
susceptible to sudden impression. 

‘ I have not got your answer,’ said Holzer, after a long 
minute, during which the two men had been intently read- 
ing each other’s faces. ‘ Do you intend to marry the girl ? ’ 

‘ You shall have my answer,’ replied the captain. ‘ But 
I think you will understand that in the face of a threat I 
can pledge myself to nothing. You have a revolver in 
your pocket ; hand it out or else throw it out of the win- 
dow, and we can then go on talking. I refuse to speak 
with a loaded weapon held to my head.’ 

The sergeant looked into the captain’s face and saw 
there no sign of fear. He was grave and perfectly self- 
possessed. Holzer drew the revolver from his pocket 
and handed it to Captain Eldringen. Emil first proceeded 
to draw out the bullets, then laid the unloaded revolver 


20 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

on the table, and turning to Holzer, said calmly and dis- 
tinctly : 

‘ I intend to marry the girl. You can leave me now, 
Sergeant Holzer.’ 

The interview had not lasted more than five minutes, 
and not one man in the regiment ever suspected that Ser- 
geant Holzer had been in Captain Eldringen’s rooms that 
afternoon. 

By the next day the engagement was already proclaimed. 
The sensation which it caused, far beyond the limits of the 
regiment, was one that was talked of for years after. By 
Emil’s horror-stricken relations the news was received with 
blank incredulity, which, however, had perforce to vanish 
in the face of the printed announcement of the accom- 
plished marriage which followed hard upon the heels of the 
news of the engagement — for Emil, having once cast the 
die of his fate, had hurried on the final act by every means 
in his power. Every Eldringen in Austria now felt that 
the only thing to be done was to look upon Emil as never 
having been bom. 

Emil himself did not b^in to come to his senses until 
the honeymoon, which he had spent with Fanny in Switzer- 
land, was over. Among the glaciers and the rocks he had 
been aware of nothing but her beauty ; but, once having 
returned to take his place again in society, it slowly began 
to dawn upon him that the satisfaction of possessing so 
beautiful a wife had been purchased at a very high price 
indeed. She had many excellent qualities besides her 
beauty; she was good and true and she loved him de- 
votedly, but among these excellent qualities adaptability 
did not figure, and it was adaptability that was wanted 
here. Barring her beauty, she was in fact intensely com- 
monplace. 

Emil had always inclined to extravagance ; he now be- 
gan to throw about his money more recklessly than ever — 
spending it upon Paris dresses for Fanny which she did 
not know how to wear, upon riding-horses which it fright- 
ened her to ride, upon a thousand costly trifles with which he 
surrounded her, in the desperate hope of inculcating those 
tastes which he was used to in women of his own rank. 


FANNY BADL. 


21 


After a couple of years of mad extravagance, followed 
by another couple of. years of fencing with creditors, Cap- 
tain Eldringen found himself obliged to leave the army. 
He first tried a civil appointment, obtained for him by old 
friends at court, but had to resign it within a 5^ear by the 
desire of his superiors, who feared that Count Eldringen’s 
rather too free use of cards was setting a bad example in 
the office. Gradually he sank from one position to an- 
other, until, one day, when he had been married for about 
ten years, he discovered that he had to choose between 
something very like starvation and the acceptance of the 
position of postmaster in a small provincial town. With 
characteristic light-heartedness he accepted the position, 
knowing nothing of its duties. 

His taste for display clung to him even now ; the chance 
appearance of an old comrade, or even the mere sight of a 
hussar or a lancer uniform in the diligence stopping at the 
door of the Post Haus^ would be sufficient excuse for a 
champagne supper, at which the talk was all of old remi- 
niscences or military gossip, and in which the postmaster’s 
pay for the next month or so was swallowed up beyond 
redemption. 

His wife had followed his fallen fortunes patiently, with- 
out any attempt to arrest him in his downward course. 
She had never been able to offer him any intellectual re- 
source, and from the moment that he had lost the means 
of dressing her up and showing her off, Emil also lost the 
last vestige of interest in her. 

He had been in the Post Haus for about two years, 
when the rumours of the champagne suppers were the 
cause of his losing his position. Fanny, whose health had 
long been failing under the stress of growing anxiety, did 
not long survive this new shock. 

Emil was now a widower with one child, his daughter 
Ulrica, aged twelve at the time of her mother’s death. It 
was from the Post Haus that father and daughter set out in 
search of a new existence. 


22 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


CHAPTER III. 

THE VILLA FLORA. 

Ulrica Eldringen had never known any real child- 
hood. Her very infancy had been darkened by the shadow 
which the coming ruin cast before it. Count Eldringen 
had always remained at heart too much of an aristocrat to 
allow his daughter anything like free association with the 
children of mere burghers. She had therefore had no play- 
mates, her pleasures were all solitary and unchildlike, and 
she had seldom possessed any more entertaining playthings 
than her father’s discarded cigar-boxes, or the tin-foil wrap- 
pings of the perfumed cakes of soap which Count Eldrin- 
gen, even though a beggar, still counted among the neces- 
saries of life. But even with these toys she had not played 
for long, there had been too much to do, too much work 
undone lying all around her to let even a child like her sit 
idle in its midst. Fanny had had the instincts of the Ger- 
man Hausfrau, but not the energy. From the moment 
that her health began to fail, her grasp of the household 
rein relaxed and gradually fell into Ulrica’s hands, for Ul- 
rica had inherited the instinct, and the energy she had 
found within herself. At eight years old it had seemed to 
her quite natural that she should order the dinner, at ten 
she had found it equally natural that she should cook it ; 
for there occasionally arose some difficulty in finding a suc- 
cessor to the one maid-of-all-work, who for long had repre- 
sented the whole serving power of the establishment, and 
the last specimen of whom had perhaps decamped in con- 
sequence of a long arrear of unpaid wages. Even rougher 
instruments than cooking-spoons and rolling-pins had been 
wielded by Ulrica’s childish hands, and the use of the 
broom and the scrubbing-brush was not unfamiliar to her. 

The sight of his daughter occupied with these menial 
services was, of course, very painful to Emil ; it was, in 
fact, so painful that if a hotel were within reach he generally 
preferred to dine there, rather than see his little Ulrica stag- 


THE VILLA FLORA. 


23 


gering in under the weight of the soup-tureen. He was 
very fond of his little girl and proud of her with a tender 
pride. He even took the trouble to give her English les- 
sons in the leisure intervals in which he was not playing 
Macao, nor drinking champagne with ancient comrades. 
All his life his mother’s tongue had been as familiar to him 
as his father’s, and as Ulrica was quick at picking up 
things the trouble was not great. 

Ulrica’s affection for her father was as tender and very 
much more vehement than that of her father for her. 
Emil’s vivacity, his reckless high spirits even in the midst 
of adversity, had always had more charm for her than her 
mother’s spiritless apathy. Of her two parents it was to 
him that her heart was drawn, not drawn, however, with 
the instinct of one who seeks protection, but rather with the 
instinct of one who gives it, for the stronger spirit had very 
early begun to exercise its power over the weaker one. 

As Ulrica had known no childhood, so also she knew 
no girlhood ; no girlhood as it is understood in the ordi- 
nary acceptation of the term. 

From the moment that he turned his back upon the 
Post Haus the widower had become a wanderer ; living 
partly upon his gains at the card-table, partly upon the 
credit which his title and to some extent also his personal 
effrontery procured him ; drifting about from place to place 
according to the necessities which might arise of leading 
creditors astray, or to the prospect of meeting profitable 
gambling companions. It was not to be wondered at if 
life very early ceased to have any mysteries for Ulrica. 
It needs a woman’s hand to hold before a woman’s eyes 
that merciful veil which softens the outline of those harsh 
realities among which we move,, and Ulrica, her father’s 
constant companion, was worse than alone. In the gipsy- 
like existence they led, there could not fail to be moments 
in which the realisation of her forlorn position came over 
her with a shock almost of mortal terror. Ulrica well re- 
membered the first of those shocks. The incident had 
taken place in an obscure provincial town where Count 
Eldringen, more hard pressed than usual by clamouring 
creditors, had taken refuge for a time. In the dingy lodg- 


24 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

ings, which for some weeks had been the abode of father 
and daughter, the candles burnt on for hours every night, 
long after the houses all round had grown dark. Ulrica 
seldom showed herself on these occasions, but she always 
sat up until the last of her father’s guests was gone. He 
was no longer to be arrested on his downward course — 
she had long ago recognised this — but her influence over 
him was great enough occasionally to cut short some more 
than usually disastrous gambling seance which threatened 
to stretch into daylight. It was on an occasion of this 
sort, when Ulrica, heavy-eyed from want of sleep, had 
resolutely entered the card-room, that one of the players 
who had been keeping himself awake all night with rather 
more rum and water than his youthful head could stand, 
threw his arm round her waist and attempted to kiss her. 
She had pushed him aside in an instant, and with clenched 
teeth and eyes that had grown suddenly wide awake and 
wild, she walked straight up to her father. 

‘ That man has insulted me,’ she said, pointing her finger 
at him. ‘ Make him leave the house, or else throw him 
out.’ 

The young man cast a glance of tipsy inquiry at Count 
Eldringen’s face and preferred to leave the house of his 
own accord. Emil had made a step towards him, his 
hands clenched and his face aflame with fury ; the very 
picture of a righteously wrathful father who means to stand 
between his child and her insulter, with a naked sword, if 
need be. And at that moment he. really meant it ; the 
sight of the man’s arm round Ulrica’s waist had roused in 
him not only the father but the aristocrat. 

‘You will never play with that man again,’ said Ulrica, 
when they were alone. 

‘ Play with him ! ’ echoed Count Eldringen, who was 
striding up and down the room, still panting with indigna- 
tion ; ‘ touch hands with the miserable wretch who has 
treated my daughter as he might treat a barmaid ? Not 
though he should go down on his knees for it, shall he 
ever cross my threshold again.’ 

A few days later Emil, who had been having some 
rather dull evenings, put a tentative question to his daugh- 


THE VILLA FLORA. 


25 


ter : Supposing that the man did go down on his knees, 
figuratively, of course, might it not be possible to recon- 
sider the first decision ? A few days’ reflection had con- 
vinced Count Eldringen that it was to the rum and water 
solely that his rash act was to be ascribed. 

‘ Are you seriously proposing this ? ’ asked Ulrica, fixing 
her grey eyes, full of an incredulous wonder, upon her 
father’s face. Emil’s own eyes fell before her gaze. 

‘ I was proposing nothing, I was only putting the ques- 
tion,’ he answered confusedly. ‘ Of course you are quite 
right to feel it in that way. It’s a pity, however, that it 
should have been that fellow of all others ; he’s about the 
only man in the place with whom it is worth while to play 
Macao. ^ 

Ulrica, who at that time was still young enough to 
cherish illusions, believed this to be the final word on the 
subject. 

One evening, about a week after this conversation, she 
was returning from an errand to the grocer’s, and with a 
small packet of coffee and sugar under her arm, which she 
was about to prepare for the evening meal, wearily mount- 
ing the staircase. There were voices in the room within. 
Opening the door, she saw her father sitting at the card- 
table with two players, one of them being the young man 
in question. Emil glanced up somewhat guiltily. There 
was a pause of embarrassment while Ulrica stood still in 
the doorway. 

i ‘Will you come outside, I wish to speak to you,’ she 
: said at the end of that minute, not moving from her place 
in the doorway. Emil laid down his cards and followed 
her out into the passage. 

‘ I did not ask him,’ he began, deprecatingly, as soon as 
the door was closed, ‘ I can assure you that I did not ask 
him ; he dropped in of his own accord, and as we were just 
short of one player and as the poor young fellow really 
seems very sorry—’ 

Ulrica was standing opposite to her father in the dimly 
lighted passage. 

‘ That is not the question,’ she interrupted ; ‘ the question 
)is: Whose company do you prefer, his or mine? As long 


1 


26 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


as that man is in the house I shall stay away. You must 
make up your mind quickly. Here is the coffee and 
sugar; I am sorry I shall not be able to prepare it for 
you.’ 

‘You can’t mean that, Ulrica, my Ulrichen, you can- 
not go away ; where would you sleep ? ’ 

‘ I don’t know ; in the street, perhaps ;’ and she held the 
parcel towards him. Count Eldringen looked into his 
daughter’s face and then without a word went back into 
the room. 

A few minutes later the offender left the house. He did 
not again re-enter it, but presently it came to Ulrica’s ears 
by chance that her father visited him in his own lodgings 
and that the card games had not ceased, but had only 
been transplanted to a different locality. 

Ulrica was fifteen at the time when she was forced to 
make this first stand in defence of her own dignity. Within 
the next few years more than one similar occurrence took 
place. Finding no support in her father, she accustomed 
herself to rely on no one but on herself alone. 

The older the girl grew, the more forcibly was it borne in 
upon her that, such as she was, she fitted into no one class 
of society, that she was an unfortunate middle-thing, whose 
very existence was an insult to social barriers, and that for 
this sin she was condemned to a life-long penance. She 
was half noble-born lady, half burgher-girl, consequently 
she was neither one nor the other. In the course of their 
wanderings chance had brought Emil and his daughter in 
contact both with their aristocratic and their plebeian rela- 
tions. The first of these meetings had taken place one 
summer in the much patronised Soinmerfrische Baden, an 
hour’s distance by rail from Vienna. Ulrica had been 
spending a solitary day in a third-class hotel, when her 
father entered the room with a tumbled flower in his but- 
tonhole and in the best of possible spirits. He had gone to 
Vienna that morning for a race-meeting. 

‘ Get out your prettiest gown, Ulrichen,’ he said, affec- 
tionately patting his daughter’s shoulder, ‘and have it 
ready against to-morrow. I have an invitation for you.’ ' 

‘ My prettiest gown is the one with the fewest dams and I 


THE VILLA FLORA. 


27 


the least patches,’ replied Ulrica ; ‘ but what do you mean 
by an invitation ? ’ 

‘ I have promised to take you to dine to-morrow at 
Countess Tiefenthal’s,’ was Emil’s exultant reply. 

‘To dine — at Countess Tiefenthal’s,’ repeated Ulrica 
with stupefaction. Such an occurrence as being asked to 
dine anywhere was in her experience almost unprecedented, 
and being asked to dine with a Countess Tiefenthal was a 
thing which simply passed her comprehension. 

‘I met her in the train, coming down just now;’ and 
Count Eldringen launched into an account of the adventure 
which had led up to the invitation. It was not much of 
an adventure ; an over-filled train, some doubtful and 
rather hilarious individuals on their way back from the 
races, their intrusion into a first-class carriage, an elegant 
but helpless lady sitting unprotected with a maiden daugh- 
ter on either side — such had been the ingredients of the 
situation which had given Count Eldringen the opportunity 
of playing the rescuing knight and of earning the gratitude 
of these somewhat fluttered females, a gratitude which, 
reassured by the inscription on Emil’s calling-card, had 
finally culminated in an invitation for next day. 

Though Ulrica had received her father’s news with a 
great deal more surprise than pleasure, she made no demur 
to the arrangement. She could see that his heart was set 
upon it, and perhaps some faint curiosity was astir within 
herself. 

At the appointed hour next day father and daughter 
made their way towards the Villa Flora, in which the 
Tiefenthals were passing the summer. A liveried servant 
ushered them through a cool ante-room filled with what 
appeared to Ulrica to be banks of great glossy green 
leaves. She looked about her curiously but not nervously, 
for self-consciousness did not lie in her nature ; hers was 
the courage of ignorance which goes forward boldly in 
face of an unknown danger. Had the well-trained foot- 
man not been too quick for her she would herself have 
turned the handle of the door towards which they were 
being led ; she had never had any one to open a door for 
her before, and she could not imagine the reason of his 


28 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


hurry. Neither did she understand why her father was 
mentioning their names to the servant, but before she had 
found time to put the question to him the door was open 
and ‘ Count Eldringen and Countess Eldringen ’ were an- 
nounced. 

Now at last Ulrica stood still, not owing to any diffi- 
dence, but because the artistic and flower-scented twilight 
which pervaded the room appeared to her to be utter dark- 
ness. While crossing the ante-room she had heard voices, 
but the announcement of their names had been followed 
by a pause of dead silence. Then she began to distinguish 
forms and presently faces. A lady, who appeared in some 
inexplicable way to be swathed from head to foot in one 
single piece of coffee-coloured lace, rose from an easy-chair 
and advanced towards the visitors. From another seat 
which stood nearer to the door another lady, taller and 
stouter than the first, stood up abruptly. Ulrica heard an 
exclamation — two exclamations, one from the stout lady, 
another from her father, who was by her side. She looked 
at him and perceived that he had flushed scarlet. 

The lady who had risen abruptly, was his sister. Countess 
Minart, with whom he had not been in the same room for 
eighteen years, though he had more than once met her 
face to face in the streets of Vienna. Between the two 
the lady in the coffee-coloured lace stood startled and ir- 
resolute, looking from one to the other and vainly attempt- 
ing to grasp the situation. 

Countess Minart recovered first, being a woman of con- 
siderable nerve. As a subtle blending of the most exqui- 
sitely iced civility and the easy ignoring of anything un- 
pleasant, her greeting to her brother was a masterpiece of 
its kind. The presence of other guests and the necessity 
of introductions helped to cover the embarrassment of the 
moment, and presently, the first shock having been weath- 
ered and a favourable opportunity having been seized, the 
hostess, half hysterical with excitement, had withdrawn 
with Countess Minart into her private boudoir, where a 
hasty council of war was being held. 

‘ I felt uncomfortable from the moment I gave the invi- 
tation,’ Countess Tiefenthal was tearfully saying. ‘We 


THE VILLA FLORA. 


29 


had scarcely got home yesterday when Helene and Clara 
both took me to task for being so — so impetuous. The 
dear girls have got so much more presence of mind than I 
have, you know.’ 

‘ I know it,’ emphatically assented Countess Minart, who 
was sweeping up and down the room with resolute strides. 
‘ If you had not got them at your elbow you would be for- 
ever committing these blunders.’ 

‘ What was it that was wrong about the girl’s mother ! ’ 
timidly inquired the still weeping hostess. ‘Was it the 
stage, or — ’ 

‘Something much worse than the stage; she was the 
daughter of a sergeant in Emil’s regiment. Her name was 
Bandl or Pandl, or something of that sort.’ 

Countess Tiefenthal sank back in her chair, annihilated 
by the blow. 

‘ There was no distinct quarrel, you know, it was a tacit 
break ; we simply gave up communicating with Emil, and, 
fortunately, Emil had the good sense to see that any at- 
tempt at a meeting could only be painful.’ 

‘ And it is I who have brought it about ! ’ cried Countess 
Tiefenthal, with a fresh burst of tears. ‘ O Chlotilde, what 
is to be done f Had I not better go in and tell them that 
your vtigraine has come on ? Or perhaps you would prefer 
not to stay in the house ? ’ and the distracted hostess looked 
wildly at the window as though wondering whether its 
width would be sufficient to enable her resolute but stout 
friend to effect a hasty exit thence. 

‘ Don’t be foolish, Lina,’ was the reply. * ‘ I shall cer- 
tainly stay in the house ; the situation is awkward, but I 
think I can say that I am equal to it. There must be 
nothing approaching to an affront so long as they are your 
guests. We owe that to ourselves.^ 

‘ O Chlotilde, how brave you are ! My poor, poor 
friend, it must be so trying to you — oh, can you ever for- 
give me ? ’ 

The next minute the two Countesses were in each other’s 
arms, and five minues later, all traces of tears having been 
removed, they had rejoined the company in the drawing- 
room, where meanwhile Helene and Clara had been doing 


3 ° 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


the honours with an ease and routine which fully justified 
Countess Minart’s praise of these perfectly well-regulated 
damsels. 

At the moment of her entrance it had appeared to Ulrica 
that there were at least twenty people in the room, but the 
company being presently seated at table, it became clear 
that there were no. more than a dozen in all. 

The daughters of the hostess disclosed themselves in this 
fuller light as two tall, somewhat bony girls of some five- or 
six-and-twenty, with hard blue eyes and marvellous waists. 

So frequently had these young ladies been asked in con- 
fidence for the name of their staymaker that they generally 
kept a stock of directions written out, wherewith to oblige 
their friends. 

The other pair of sisters present, the daughters of Emil’s 
stout but still handsome sister, appeared to Ulrica’s eyes 
like a pair of costly biscuit-china figures, so- exquisitely deli- 
cate to look at that she shrank from touching them, as 
from something that might break under her hand. Count 
M inart, their father, was an exhausted looking individual, 
with pale whiskers, dim eyes, a faint check on his cravat, 
and a faint perfume of wood-violet hanging about his per- 
son. Three bachelors made up the rest of the party. Of 
these one was an elderly young man, big, stout, with black 
hair and a fat, clean-shaven face, which gave to his appear- • 
ance something priestlike, though not by any means as- ! 
cetic. He answered to the name of Baron Bernersdorf, j 
and appeared to be some sort of near relation to the faint- • 
coloured Count M inart. The two others were youths so i 
perfectly appointed in every detail of their toilet, and ■- 
turned out after so correct and universal a pattern, that » 
any attempt to individualise them would be vain. 

Countess Minart had not overvalued her powers when j 
she declared herself equal to the task before her. Inspired 
by her example, every other member of the party rose | 
triumphantly to the occasion. The situation was carried 
off with that smooth and ready tact which is only to be 
found among people with whom the study of social forms 
has been raised to the level of a high art. If Ulrica had 
required to be put at her ease, she could not have failed to 


THE VILLA FLORA. 


31 


be reassured by the masterly ignoring of the shabbiness of 
her black stuff gown, or by the truly admirable manner in 
which the young and comparatively inexperienced M inart 
girls appeared absolutely not to be aware of the various and 
somewhat ludicrous blunders into which, during the course 
of dinner, she fell, for a correctly laid and properly served 
dinner-table was to Ulrica an entirely unexplored country. 
That evening, in the privacy of their comfortable bed- 
rooms, the Countesses Theckla and Melanie Minart delighted 
their younger sisters by a spiritedly acted representation of 
Ulrica attempting to cut up her ice with a knife and fork, 
or of the consternation which for a moment was spread 
over the party, when she had calmly risen from her chair 
in order to fetch from the sideboard a dish of peas of 
which she judged that her father would like a second help- 
ing ; but at the moment of these occurrences there had 
not been even the ghost of a smile upon the delicately 
curved lips. 

Ulrica herself sat through the meal lost in amazement. 
She had not even known that such ease, such comfort, 
such luxury, existed. The glitter of the crystal dishes and 
the flash of the silver dazzled her ; the food set before her 
seemed of an indescribable and almost unearthly excel-' 
lence. Once her eye fell upon the hand of the elder of 
the two Minart sisters, toying with some bread-crumbs on 
the tablecloth ; it looked like a piece of alabaster. From 
it she looked back at her own hands, reddened with ex- 
posure, roughened with work ; and that girl opposite her 
was her cousin, they had the same blood in their veins — 
was it not strange ? What exactly was the difference be- 
tween them? Was it money alone that made it? No, 
money was not the dividing barrier here, for through it all, 
despite the attention of the hostess, of which she enjoyed 
her full share, despite the faultless civility of the two daugh- 
ters of the house and the sweet smiles of Theckla and 
Melanie, Fanny Badl’s daughter was never for a moment 
allowed to forget that such a barrier did actually exist. 

! Nothing but the most perfect breeding could have hit off 

I to a nicety the undefinable yet unmistakable nua7tce which 

i characterised the tone in which Ulrica was addressed as 

I 3 


32 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


contrasted to that used by the other members of the party 
towards each other, and which, while appearing to make 
her welcome in their midst, yet seemed to be saying con- 
tinually : ‘You are not one of us, and you never can be.’ 

As for Emil, having rapidly recovered from the shock of 
the meeting with his sister, he gave himself up to complete 
enjoyment. Those things that bewildered Ulrica were to 
him nothing but a delightful return to old, half-forgotten 
scenes. The line between him and his daughter was 
exquisitely drawn; for though Emil might be shabbily 
dressed, and though his eye might be dim and his hand 
unsteady, as he filled some fair neighbour’s glass, yet, for 
all that, he remained ‘ one of them.’ It was possible to 
forgive the father for what he had done^ but it was utterly 
out of the question to forgive the daughter for what she 
was. 

Despite the marvellous display of tact on all sides, there 
could not, of course, fail to be some openly awkward mo- 
ments. The choice of subjects of conversation proved 
more than once a stumbling-block. The very first remark 
which Ulrica’s neighbour addressed to her gave rise to one 
of these moments. This neighbour was Baron Bernersdorf. 
She had not done eating her soup before she had taken a 
violent dislike to this man. 

‘ This is not very neighbourly,’ he began in a mock-plain- 
tive tone, after one or two efforts to draw Ulrica into con- 
versation. ‘ I have made two remarks ^bout the weather 
and three about the progress of the season, and have only 
got five monosyllables in return. And yet I almost flatter 
myself that my conversation is more entertaining than even 
asparagus soup,’ he added, in a more distinctly confidential 
tone. 

‘I have got something to eat,’ replied Ulrica shortly, 
‘ and I have nothing to say. Besides, I am hungry, if you 
care to know.’ 

Baron Bernersdorf made a movement of interest. 
‘Hungry? You don’t say so! What would I not give 
to be hungry! Every morning I am to be met wandering 
about the Helenenthal, dismally in search of an appetite, 
which cruelly eludes me. What is your recipe ? ’ 


THE VILLA FLORA. 


33 


‘ If you had eaten nothing since this time yesterday, I 
suppose you would be hungry too.’ 

‘ Oh, you starve yourself ? That’s not a bad idea. I 
should almost try it if I were not afraid of being thought 
eccentric ; I like unusual sensations, and this one of being 
hungry I cannot even recall.’ 

‘ I can describe it to you very accurately,’ said Ulrica, 
with a hard smile. ‘ I go to bed hungry about every sec- 
ond night.’ 

There happened to be a pause in the conversation as she 
spoke, so that the words were clearly heard. 

‘ Surely everybody feels hungry at times,’ broke in the 
anxious hostess, rushing to the rescue. ‘ Don’t you remem- 
ber how hungry we were last summer on the day of our 
first visit to the picture exhibition? There was no res- 
taurant near enough to go to, and by the time we came 
out we were ready to drop with hunger, were we not, 
Clara ? ’ and she looked appealingly at her daughter for a 
corroboration of the statement. 

*That is not what I meant,’ said Ulrica, with perfect 
composure. ‘ It isn’t the want of restaurants that has ever 
made me feel hungry, but the want of money to pay for 
the food there.’ 

A moment of painful silence followed. Countess Tiefen- 
thal looked helplessly towards her friend, who immediately 
stepped into the breach with some random question which 
turned the current of the talk. This had, perhaps, been the 
most awkward of the awkward turns which the conversa- 
tion took during dinner, but it was by no means the last. 
It was a strain upon the self-possession of the company, 
for instance, when some recent marriage having been men- 
tioned, Count Minart had in a faint voice, which exactly 
matched the dimness of his eyes and the sketchy check on 
his cravat, pronounced the match unsuitable on the ground 
of the lady not possessing the number of quarterings con- 
sidered indispensable to conjugal happiness in the circle in 
which she moved. 

‘ II s’est encanaille, tout bonnement,’ the Count was say- 
ing, when a frown of his wife’s and a significant glance 
towards Ulrica caused his voice to die away into silence. 


34 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


The dinner had been trying enough, but it was after 
dinner, when the coffee was being drunk on the veranda, 
that the strain on Ulrica’s nerves reached its highest ten- 
sion. By this time she had fully comprehended her posi- 
tion and taken her stand. When Clara Tiefenthal civilly 
offered her a book of photographs to look at, it was almost 
rudely that she pushed it aside, and when good-natured 
little Theckla Minart invited her to join the other girls who 
were strolling round the garden, she was rewarded by so 
fierce a stare that the poor child fled swiftly back to her 
companions. 

There also not a single rule of politeness had been in- 
fringed ; it was Ulrica’s own fault if she sat alone, gazing 
about her with sullen eyes, like some animal driven to 
bay. 

‘ No, I do not belong to these people,’ said Ulrica to 
herself as she was on her way back to the hotel that after- 
noon. ‘They are right — I am not one of them, and I 
never shall be.’ 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE KAFFEE JAUSE. 

The dinner at the Villa Flora remained an isolated fact, 
but it had an afterplay, for dating from that day Baron 
Bemersdorf was forever turning up on her solitary walks. 

‘ Would you join the Tiefenthal girls if you met them in 
this way ? ’ Ulrica asked him fiercely, on one of these oc- 
casions. 

‘ I couldn’t meet them in this way,’ answered the Baron, 
perturbed, ‘ because they never go out without their chap- 
erone.’ 

‘ And it is because I have got no chaperone that you 
think it fair to join me ? ’ 

‘ That’s different, don’t you see ; you have been so differ- 
ently — what shall we say — brought up? And besides, 
we’re a sort of cousins, you know,’ he added quickly, hav- 


, THE KAFFEE JAUSE. 


35 


ing taken warning by her expression. ‘ We must be, since 
your aunt’s husband is a relation of mine. There can’t be 
any harm in taking a stroll up the Helenenthal with one’s 
cousin.’ 

Ulrica carefully avoided the Helenenthal henceforward, 
but Baron Bernersdorf proved unavoidable. She was only 
seventeen at this time, so she was to be excused for not 
immediately sounding his dishonourable object to its depth. 
The day on which it dawned upon her was one of those 
days to which she owed her sad and premature knowledge 
of the world. 

‘ It would be lovely if you would spend the autumn in 
my little Bohemian fortress,’ he had said to her one day. 
‘ It’s right in the thick of the forest — no one to disturb us 
in our walks there.’ 

‘ In autumn my father intends to go to Ischl,’ Ulrica 
replied indifferently. 

‘Your father? Oh yes, to be sure; but no doubt you 
could persuade him to change his mind. And then,’ added 
the Baron, following his train of thought aloud, ‘ it won’t 
be difficult to find occupation for him. Does your father 
shoot ? ’ 

‘ He has given it up.^ 

‘ That’s a pity.’ 

‘Why?’ 

‘ Because two are company and three are none. I too 
have given up shooting — more or less, and I had hoped 
for some exquisite forenoons in your society. I can see 
you playing the Chatelaine in velvet and silk ; you can’t 
think how velvet and silk would become you.’ 

‘Velvet and silk?’ said Ulrica. Her face had com- 
pletely changed ; she was beginning to understand. ‘ You 
.know that I have got no money.’ 

‘ But I have got money,’ said the Baron gently. 

This time the watchful look in his small, keen eyes and 
the smile upon his smooth, fat face was not to be mistaken. 
Ulrica measured him from head to foot slowly, and then 
turned her back upon him. 

‘You are a bad man,’ she said as she walked away, 
without looking back. 


36 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


She recognised now that in the eyes of this highly bom 
libertine she had been fair game all along. 

This last incident struck into flame the sullen indignation 
which, ever since the dinner at the Villa Flora, had been 
smouldering within her. She told herself that of her own 
free will she would never again cross the path of any of her 
father’s relations. It was by a natural reaction that from 
this idea her thoughts should rebound to her other rela- 
tions, the relations of her mother. She had never thought 
of them much, and never seen them; her father had 
avoided them almost as carefully as his own relations had 
avoided him. Now, all at once, she felt herself drawn 
with a sudden, yearning curiosity towards that lower 
burgher class to which the Badls belonged. There, surely, 
among those simple people, uncontaminated by the breath 
of society, would she find that warm-hearted welcome 
which had been refused her elsewhere. 

It so happened that this yearning curiosity was soon to 
find its satisfaction. That very autumn Count Eldringen 
found himself stranded in a small provincial town where 
lived a brother of his dead wife’s, a certain Josef Badl, a 
hair-dresser by profession. 

When Ulrica, on the day after their arrival, suddenly 
expressed the wish to make the acquaintance of her 
mother’s brother, Emil, though considerably surprised, 
offered no resistance. 

So Ulrica had her desire. What, however, was her as- 
tonishment when she found herself for>ced to confess that 
the meeting with the Badls brought her an almost more ' 
bitter disappointment than the meeting with the Minarts 
had brought her. The sight of her mother’s name painted 
plainly in red letters upon a white ground, and surmounting 
a window in which two curl-chignons, a jetty black one. 
and a pale straw coloured one, were symmetrically disposed ^ 
on either side of a monstrous plait of hair, had given her 
the first shock. But it was worse, a great deal worse, when v 

into the small, stuffy parlour, redolent of hair-oil, there J 

timidly slipped a lean, startled-looking individual, with a I 
comb behind his ear, a packet of hair-pins in his hand, and * 
some painfully distinct grease-spots upon his v/ell-worn 


THE KAFFEE JAUSE. 


37 


coat. This, she was told, was her mother’s brother, — her 
uncle. 

The hair-dresser’s surprise at this sudden whim of his 
dead sister^s widower and daughter was such that, during 
the whole of their visit, he never thoroughly recovered the 
use of his tongue. Fortunately, his wife came very speed- 
ily to the rescue. 

The want of any substantial proof wherewith to back up 
her assertions with regard to the aristocratic relations of 
her husband had long been a sore trial to Frau Badl. 
Often had indignation come near to choke her as she noted 
the incredulous smile which Frau Strumpf, the tailor’s wife, 
and Frau Pock, the shoemaker’s wife, had smiled into their 
coffee-cups while listening to her talk. ^ Our brother-in- 
law the Count,’ and ‘ our niece the Countess,’ had in time 
come to be regarded, even in Frau Badl’s most intimate 
circle of acquaintances, as a species of fabulous animals 
whose existence could not be proved. These fabulous* 
animals, having of their own free will run their necks into 
the noose, and now sitting entrapped in the hair-dresser’s 
parlour, were not to be so easily released. Frau Badl was 
nothing if she was not resolute, and even before she flew 
to her husband’s rescue she had rapidly despatched a mes- 
sage to Frau Strumpf and Frau Pock, as well as to various 
other Fraus of her acquaintance, bidding them to a Kaffee 
Jause in an hour’s time. She had seen her opportunity at 
a glance. There was no hope of an escape, though Count 
Eldringen feebly resisted and Ulrica wildly caught at ex- 
cuses. It was only when it dawned upon her that Frau 
Badl was determined and desperate enough to bar their 
passage, if necessary, with her own very substantial person, 
that Ulrica resigned herself to the ordeal which she felt ap- 
proaching. 

The remembrance of that Kaffee Jause haunted her for- 
ever after. Frau Strumpf and Frau Pock seemed to fuse 
themselves in her imagination into one monstrous specimen 
of German middle-class vulgarity. She did not know one 
from the other. She did not know which was the more 
trying — Herr Josef Badl’s awe-stricken demeanour in the 
presence of his sister’s widower, or Frau Badl’s boisterous 


38 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

attempts at familiarity. Sh*e did not know whether to 
laugh or to cry at the uncalled-for and ostentatious display 
of that nine-pointed diadem, before whose radiance all 
present were, figuratively speaking, prostrated in the dust. 
Then there were their collars and their cuffs and their bon- 
nets and their neckties, and the manner in which they used 
such things as napkins and handkerchiefs, and through it 
all there was the penetrating odour of cheap hair-oil. 

It was while gazing with a sort of involuntary fascination 
at the green glass buttons which glittered on a festive gar- 
ment opposite to her that Ulrica suddenly found herself 
drawing comparisons between this dress and the delicate, 
creamy garments worn by Theckla and Melanie M inart at 
the dinner in the Villa Flora. From having made one 
comparison she drifted off into more. She looked at the 
plates, at the spoons, at the wall-paper, at the breathless 
and perspiring girl who was assisting Frau Badl in her in- 
defatigable efforts to press upon each guest double the 
number of cups of weak coffee and four times the amount 
of home-baked cake which an average human digestion 
can be expected to stand ; and each observation was con- 
fronted by a memory which dated from the Villa Flora. 
It was against her will that she drew these comparisons. 
She was angry with herself — was it possible that she was 
regarding these honest, well-meaning people with some- 
thing of the same eyes with which the Minarts and the 
Tiefenthals had regarded her ? 

Not till now had she realised how much of a revelation 
that brief glimpse of luxury and refinement had been to 
her ; it had touched chords within her of whose existence 
she had been unaware. She told herself now that she had 
been born cursed with the inherited instinct of a refinement 
which she possessed no means of satisfying. 

‘ I belong to these people as little as I do to the others,’ 
she said to herself that evening ; ‘ there is no place for me 
anywhere, I have no right to exist.’ 

Her state of mind was not so much bitter as defiant ; 
she was too young, too strong, and too conscious of her own 
youthful strength to be yet embittered. If fate had been 
hard to her, she told herself that she was equal to grappling 


THE KAFFEE JAUSE. 


39 


with fate. It was with head held high and clenched teeth 
that she advanced to meet her future, determined not to 
be conquered in the fight. 

Of her English relations -Ulrica knew next to nothing. 
Among her father’s papers there had long lain an old bun- 
dle of English letters addressed to her grandmother, Emil’s 
mother, and which by some chance had strayed into his 
possession. They were letters written by her brother, who 
had corresponded with her up to her death. Judging by 
many passages in these letters, this great-uncle of Ulrica’s, 
Sir Arthur Nevyll, must have been possessed of considera- 
ble Wealth. There were numerous references to his two 
sons, Gilbert and George, first cousins to her father. In 
one of the letters was enclosed an old daguerreotype, very 
faint and faded, representing two small boys in short 
jackets and wide collars. 

‘ My boys Gilbert and George ’ was written at the back. 
Ulrica had often scanned the picture curiously. Since old 
Countess Eldringen’s death there had been little communi- 
cation between the two families. Emil had learnt the 
news of his uncle’s death from the papers, and shortly after 
had received a handsome memorial ring which the old 
gentleman had bequeathed to his Austrian nephew. It 
was Gilbert, the elder of his two English cousins, who had 
sent the ring, accompanied by a few brief but friendly lines. 
Ulrica had been a child at the time, but she remembered 
the arrival of the ring. Since that time she had heard 
nothing more of either Gilbert or George. 

Ulrica was nineteen when her father, whose constitution, 
undermined by excesses of every sort, had begun to give 
way some time previously, was forced to break off one of 
his desultory journeys, and lay himself dqwn in the best 
bedroom of the ‘ Golden Inn ’ at Glockenau. 


40 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


CHAPTER V. 

GLOCKENAU. 

It was not until the day after the funeral that Ulrica 
became conscious of a desire to look about her and see 
how was fashioned the comer of earth on which Fate had 
cast her. Hitherto she had only been vaguely conscious 
of the vicinity of pine-woods and of the distant presence of 
white peaks ; she had heard the ripple of water close by 
and had scented spring blossoms in the air, but it had all 
been undefined and dreamlike, too inextricably woven in 
with her grief, too thickly veiled by the tears in her eyes, 
to have possessed any recognisable physiognomy of its 
own. It is an old, old truth that the love of a woman for 
a man, whether it be the love of a wife, a mother, or a 
daughter, is deeper in exact proportion to the pain and 
trouble which that man has cost her; and Ulrica had 
suffered too cruelly, she had watched over her father with 
too torturing an anxiety, her youth had been too merci- 
lessly sacrificed on the altar of his selfishness, for her not 
to feel robbed by his death of everything that made life 
precious to her. 

In the morning after the funeral she awoke refreshed from 
the first unbroken night’s rest she had had for a week. The 
rising sun was straight in her eyes, and the wing of a passing 
swallow brushed the window with a gentle tap which had 
in its sound something of a reproach and something of an 
invitation. Ulrica sat up and looked through the window i 
with eyes that were for the first time for many days aware ' 
of what they saw ; and what she saw now was so bright 
with the first sunbeams and so fresh with the morning 
dew, so smiling and restful and tenderly green, that she 
felt her pulses stirred with a sudden new courage, a new ^ 
desire to face life, and, above all, a longing curiosity to see J 
more of this springlike beauty that was franied in the little 
square window. 

Half an hour later she stepped out of the inn door, and 


GLOCKENAU. 


41 


then stood still for a minute to look around her. The vil- 
lage lay in the hollow of a valley which at one end nar- 
rowed with a steep rise and disappeared with a sharp curve 
among the thickly wooded hills, while at the other it grad- 
ually widened and flattened out towards a distantly seen 
plain bounded by a long chain of mountains. A moder- 
ately broad river, flowing down from the steep end of the 
valley, curved round the irregular row of houses which 
constituted the principal part of Glockenau. It was not 
so much a street as a jumble of larger and smaller farm- 
houses, each flanked by a little scrap of garden and gener- 
ally backed by an orchard which merged without percepti- 
ble division into queer little humpbacked green fields that 
climbed the sides of the valley up to the very shadow of 
the woods. So white were the orchards that they could 
not have been whiter had the winter snow come back 
again. 

The whole place was astir already, or rather it had again 
settled into quiet after the first stir of the morning; the 
men had gone off to the fields or to the woods, the cows 
had been driven off to pasture, and their metal bells tinkled 
fitfully from every comer of the valley. There were open 
doors on all sides, milk-pails set out to dry along the wall, 
bunches of blue gentian in earthenware jugs on the sill of 
some open window ; sometimes a couple of children, with 
cheeks firm and bright as apples, were breakfasting on the 
door-step and uttered a shy 'Gruss Gott' as Ulrica passed 
up the village. 

The road grew steeper as she approached the wood, and 
the valley narrowed ; presently she was past the last house, 
and the pine scent beat fresh and chill upon her face. 
Her ears were full of the noise of rushing water. The 
river, which in the wider part of the valley spread its 
waters so decorously, was here still a wild and unruly 
mountain goblin, leaping from rock to rock, and chatter- 
ing gleefully with a hundred tongues. Now and then 
some tiny, frothy, noisy rill, white as milk and sparkling as 
j champagne, cut its way down the green bank, and tumbled 
, headlong into the river. After a time the whirr of a mill- 
I wheel began to detach itself from the rush of the water. 


42 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


At the door ‘ of the rustic mill-house a friendly-looking 
woman nodded to Ulrica as she passed. The mill was the 
last human habitation in this direction. Ulrica had now 
left the road and was treading a forest-path edged with a 
mossy rim and powdered with the bronze of fallen pine- 
needles. The noise of the river reached her from some 
distance off ; here beside her there was nothing but the 
discreet trickle of a stream, which, to judge from its half- 
empty bed, must at one time have been of far greater vol- 
ume. A sharp turn of the path brought her to an open 
space, at the sight of which she instinctively slackened her 
steps. 

All this time she had had a distinct object in her mind : 
she wanted to find a spot where she could sit down and 
think, where she could review her past and lay a plan for 
her future. And for this she required unbroken solitude. 
As she came on to this grassy space she felt that she had 
found what she wanted. An old mill, probably the prede- 
cessor of the one she had passed lower down, must have 
stood here at one time. A few crumbling remnants of the 
walls still marked the spot, but the brambles had seized 
upon them and covered them with so thick a tangle as 
almost entirely to mask the stones. The blossoming white 
twigs, clouded with purplish pink, floated on each breath 
of air. The old mill-wheel, fringed with the dead waving 
grass of last year and choked with tiny sprouting ferns, still 
stood in the bed of the stream. On the bank a little 
higher up were flung two round objects which might have 
been taken for two green velvet cushions placed there side 
by side — old millstones abandoned there to the moss. 
Through an opening in the trees the village roofs, half 
drowned in the sea of white blossoms, could be seen below 
in the hollow of the valley. Across the plain the moun- •’ 
tains, still covered with snow, loomed in the distance like • 
great monuments of white marble piled against the sky. 

Ulrica sat down on the most moss-grown of the old mill- ' 
stones and took off her hat, the better to be able to think. 
The thin thread of water slipping down a block of stone 
into a little rocky pool alternately murmured and swelled j 
in her ear, like the sound of two voices answering each! 


GLOCKENAU. 


43 


other ; now a loud hum, now a rippling whisper, and now 
again a few moments of almost perfect silence, to be broken 
once more by a busier response. To the mind of most 
girls of Ulrica’s age this secluded corner, with those an- 
swering water- voices and its double seat of soft, deep velvet, 
would have irresistibly suggested a lover’s trysting spot ; 
but no such idea crossed Ulrica’s mind. Love had as yet 
found no place in her hard-worked life. In her mind 
there did not live the image of any one whose presence 
here, seated by her side on the second moss-grown stone, 
would have turned this merely beautiful spot to a bit of 
paradise. She had not come here to dream, but to calcu- 
late. With hands clasped on her knees and brows drawn 
together in earnest thought, Ulrica prepared to face her 
future. 

What exactly was her situation ? She stood in the world 
not only alone, but burdened with a debt of between three 
and four thousand florins, and she had next to no money. 
The first urgent necessity was to escape starvation ; the 
second would be to earn money enough to begin paying 
off a portion of the debts. This would probably take her 
all her life ; but that mattered nothing, so long as she did 
not die before every breath of reproach was taken from 
her father’s name. 

‘ I am nineteen years old now,’ said Ulrica to herself, ‘ I 
am very strong, my health is perfect, there is no reason at 
all why I should not be able to earn money by work of 
some sort during forty years more. If I pay off a hundred 
florins every year the debts would probably be cleared by 
the time I am forty-nine, or at least by the time I am fifty- 
nine. Of course it will not do to die before then, or even 
to fall ill. I cannot afford that. The case therefore re- 
solves itself into this : I must find some sort of work which 
will enable me to lay by one hundred florins every year.’ 

And now as to the means ? Ulrica reflected long over 
the means, passing in review before her mind’s eye the 
different sorts of work that were to be taken into consider- 
ation. 

‘ I would not do as a governess or teacher of any sort,’ 
she reflected, ‘ for I know; very well that my education is 


44 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


full of gaps ; but perhaps I might be useful as a sort of 
English-speaking companion. I shall send an advertise- 
ment to a yienna paper to-day. But this is not enough, I 
must have a second string to my bow, in case the first one 
fails. I think I shall try the “ Eldringen Stiftung.” ’ 

The ‘ Eldringen Stiftung ’ was a yearly grant which had 
been established by the family centuries ago and which 
was always allotted to an unmarried woman of the name 
of Eldringen. The only person to whom it would be 
possible for Ulrica to apply in this matter was her 
father’s sister. Countess Minart; and after a short, sharp 
tussle with her pride, she resolved to write a few lines to 
her aunt, announcing her father’s death and putting to her 
the simple question as to what steps she would require to 
take in order to make good her claims to the ‘ Eldringen 
Stiftung.’ This letter, as well as the advertisement, should 
be despatched this very day. And now came the question 
of the immediate future. A certain number of days must 
necessarily elapse before she got the replies to her letters ; 
how were these days to be passed ? She had paid the bill 
at the inn up to the present day, but she could spare noth- 
ing more for further expenses. At first sight the problem 
looked insoluble. Ulrica, having sat for some minutes 
frowning at the pool before her, hearing, though not listen- 
ing to the two voices' of the water, could think of nothing 
better than her father’s gold watch, which she might be able 
to sell or to pawn. It was not a satisfactory solution, but 
she had no further time to spend upon reflection just now ; 
those two letters must be written at once. 

She walked straight back tQ the ‘ Golden Sun,’ paused 
for a moment at the door, and then walked on towards the 
little church which lay at the extreme lower end of the 
village. She knew that close beside its east wall there 
stuck a rough wooden cross in a fresh mound of earth, and 
she felt that before taking the first step in her new life she 
must kneel beside that mound once more. 

Coming down the street, it had looked as though the 
church were the last building at this end of the village ; 
but as Ulrica stepped out again by the churchyard gate, she 
perceived that there was another house beyond, lying only 


GLOCKENAU. 


45 


some fifty yards from the church, and surrounded on three 
sides by fruit-trees. On the fourth side, the side turned 
towards the road, this house was built into its own orchard 
wall. All along the wall and up to the very windows of 
the old farmhouse green banks swelled fitfully, like grassy 
waves, and the orchard was so overflowed with its riches 
that the cherry and apple trees burst over the crumbling 
stones and rained down their flowers on the passers-by. 
The place looked uninhabited, most of the windgws being 
closed with faded green shutters. Ulrica went closer, her 
eye having been caught by a wooden tablet nailed against 
the wall at about the height of the closed windows. The 
tablet bore a date of eleven years back, and the inscription 
upon it recorded that on the 1 2th of August of that year 
the water had reached the height here marked. The 
water I Ulrica looked round her in surprise ; so quiet and 
well-behaved had the unruly mountain urchin become in 
this lowest level of the valley that she had almost forgotten 
its vicinity. It was close by, nevertheless, just across the 
road, but flowing so peacefully and looking so unformida- 
ble between its low grassy banks that the dry bare state- 
ment of that tablet on the farmhouse wall looked like an 
unwarrantable calumny. A narrow foot-bridge crossed 
the river at this point and a brightly painted wooden cross 
stood upon the near bank. 

Having once more reached the inn, Ulrica wrote her two 
letters, the one to Countess Minart and the other to an 
advertising office in Vienna. As she looked through her 
papers in search of Countess Minart’s address, another 
address fell into her hands. It was that of Sir Gilbert 
Nevyll, her father’s English cousin, the same through 
whose hands the memorial ring had been sent and the 
same whose portrait as a small boy was familiar to Ulrica. 
It came back to her mind how, a year ago, when her 
father had thought himself dying, he had expressed the 
wish that the news of his death should be conveyed to his 
English relatives ; remembering this now, Ulrica wrote a 
few lines to this unknown cousin, with a bare statement of 
the event. This done, she thought no more about the 
matter; she was not even certain that the letter would 


46 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


reach the right person’s hands, seeing that the address she 
had found dated from a dozen years back and that no 
communication had taken place since. Gilbert Nevyll 
might be dead for aught she knew. 

With her three letters in her hand she descended the 
stairs, and was immediately greeted by the sound of the 
landlady’s voice coming from some back region and raised 
to that high pitch of voluble irritation which seems to 
render the drawing of breath between whiles a quite dis- 
pensable proceeding. The landlady was the very person 
whom Uhica was in search of, in order to consult her as 
to the sale of the watch. It was to the kitchen that she 
tracked the owner of the voice, having first in the doorway 
run against a blubbering girl who was holding her apron 
to her eyes, obviously the victim at whose head this inex- 
haustible string of epithets was being hurled. The land- 
lady was standing at a table, with one hand stirring some 
messy-looking stuff in a bowl, with the other sweeping 
potato parings from off the table into a pail on the floor, 
and all the time keeping one eye upon a simmering pot on 
the fire. She was a spare, middle-aged woman, with a face 
which the sun had browned and kitchen heat had reddened, 
a brisk manner, and quick eyes. She was dressed like any 
other peasant woman of the place, in a short voluminous 
woollen skirt, black laced bodice and full white sleeves, col- 
oured woollen stockings and stout shoes, and with a black 
silk handkerchief knotted round her head. Her appear- 
ance now was of extreme irritation and flurry. At sight of 
Ulrica she broke off her harangue and stared inquiringly 
at her guest. 

‘ What on earth has that poor girl done ? ’ asked Ulrica. 
‘ You looked just now as though you were going to throw 
the pigs’ pail at her head.’ 

‘ What has she not done, you might ask me,’ was the 
grumbling response. ‘ She hasn’t set fire to the house yet, 
and she hasn’t poisoned the pigs, but she’s done pretty 
much everything else she had a chance to ; emptied half 
the salt-box into the yesterday’s soup, and put the lamp-oil 
into the salad on Thursday, and the loaves left in the oven 


GLOCKENAU. 


47 


till they were as black as my shoes ; and as for the Gu^el- 
hiipfs—^ 

‘ Is she ill ? ’ inquired Ulrica. ‘ What is the matter with 
her? ’ 

‘ It’s the Bachmeier’s Michl — that’s the matter with her,’ 
answered the landlady grimly. 

‘ You mean that she is in love ? ’ said Ulrica, in a perfectly 
matter-of-fact tone. ‘ Cooks and kitchen-maids in love 
are certainly very inconvenient things. Have you reasoned 
with her % ’ 

‘ She’s beyond reason ; I’ve packed her about her busi- 
ness, though which way I’m to turn for another pair of 
hands in the kitchen the good God alone knows. And 
two weddings coming on this week, and all the white 
loaves and the Gugelhupfs to bake. I bore it as long as I 
could, but anything’s better than a girl who sits herself 
down on the top of a basketful of eggs in order to think 
of her Michl ! ’ 

‘ Have you no daughters to help you ? ’ 

‘ I haven’t any daughters, just my soldier son — ’ 

Hiss — ss at that moment went the pot on the fire, and 
the landlady, abandoning the mixture she was stirring, 
sprung to the rescue. By the time the sputtering and hiss- 
ing had subsided she had apparently come to a resolution ; 
the boiling over of that pot had evidently been the last 
straw. Instead of returning to the table she wiped her 
hands on a duster and put her silk handkerchief straight 
on her head. 

*• I am going to step across to some of the neighbours,’ 
she said to Ulrica, who still stood by the table ; ‘ perhaps I 
can get in a girl to help. I can’t go on this way. Was it 
anything you wanted to ask me that brought you in 
here ? ’ 

‘Yes, I had a question to ask, but I have changed my 
mind about it ; I shall make a suggestion instead. Since 
you want some one to help you in the kitchen, why should 
you not employ me ? ’ 

The landlady stared incredulously. ‘You? But I 
thought you were a Grajin ? ’ 

4 


48 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

* Yes, I am a Grafin, but that need not matter.’ 

‘ But Grafins don’t cook, do they, nor wash up dishes, nor 
anything of that sort ? ’ 

‘Not as a rule; but I can both cook and wash up 
dishes. Listen to me a minute, the case is very simple. I 
have paid you every penny of what J bwe you up to to-day, 
but I have no money to pay you with beyond to-day, and 
yet it is necessary for me to stay on here a little time longer, 
perhaps a week or two. I therefore propose to you that 
since I cannot pay you in money I should pay you by 
my services in the kitchen. I think you would find me 
useful. I am very strong, and I have got no Michl to 
think about, so I am not likely to sit down on a basket of 
eggs. Tell me whether you think the proposal fair ? ’ 

The landlady was beginning to recover from her sur- 
prise. To her rustic mind the nine-pointed crown was not 
nearly so distinct a thing, and therefore not nearly so over- 
whelming as it would have been to a middle-class mind ; 
as it had been to the hair-dresser’s wife or to Frau Strumpf, 
for instance. The obvious poverty of the particular Coun- 
tess in question, moreover, did much to reduce her awe of 
the title, for she was an eminently practical woman. The 
advantages of the situation began to dawn upon her. 

‘ Do you mean that you would ask no wages ? ’ she in- 
quired. 

‘ No, I ask only for a bed to sleep on and for my food.’ 

‘ If I knew how much you have learnt — ’ began the 
landlady doubtfully. Ulrica , pulled off her gloves and 
looked round her. 

‘ That you shall see for yourself. Where is there any- 
thing to do ? Oh, that dough is waiting to be kneaded — 
why, it will be tough in two minutes,’ and she rolled up her 
sleeves over a pair of arms that were as firm and as mag- 
nificently rounded as though they had been hewn out of 
marble, and vigorously attacked the dough. There was 
several minutes’ silence, during which Ulrica worked away, 
while the landlady’s sharp eye watched her manipulations 
with the kneading-board and the rolling-pin, and then the 
landlady said: ‘Yes, I think you can help me; you can 
have your bed and yom food.’ 


GLOCKENAU. 


49 


And so it was settled. This was a better solution than 
the watch, thought Ulrica. Both parties were satisfied with 
their bargain. The two weddings were got through suc- 
cessfully: never had there been such delicious Gugelhupfs 
nor such white loaves seen at any wedding feast in the 
village. 

At the end of a week Ulrica got the first letter ; it was 
the answer from Countess Minart. The epistle began 
with a set phrase of condolence and ended with an offer 
of money. Ulrica’s question was answered as follows: — 

‘ You appear to be labouring under some curious misap- 
prehension with regard to the “ Eldringen Stiftung.” This 
family institution was created by a Count Gustave Eldrin- 
gen in the year 1660, for the express purpose of providing 
for unmarried females of the name of Eldringen whose 
means might not suffice for a mode of life such as the posi- 
tion of the family demands. It seems almost superfluous 
to add that, these being the sentiments by which my 
ancestor was guided, the first condition attached to the 
granting of this position is the perfect purity of descent 
of the recipient. For the daughter of any Eldringen who 
had allied himself below his rank, my ancestor did not 
consider himself called upon to provide. Since you ask 
me a plain question I have no choice but to give you a 
plain answer.’ 

Ulrica’s brow was flaming as she crushed up the letter 
in her hand. She was fmious with herself for having writ- 
ten to this woman. Henceforward she would take ad- 
vice from no one. Her hopes were now centred upon 
the result of her advertisement, but she was not to cherish 
these for long. The next week indeed brought a com- 
munication from the Vienna Bureau; two ladies had re- 
plied to her notice. The first letter was a closely written 
and exhaustive string of questions as to her qualifications 
as a companion. What other language could she speak 
besides English? What instruments did she play? Was 
her disposition gay and cheerful ? Could she undertake to 
keep up lively and interesting talk such as would divert 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


50 


the mind of a low-spirited old lady from brooding over 
her family misfortunes 1 Was she thoroughly well- versed 
in both crochet and fancy knitting? It was evident that 
the writer of the letter was determined to have the value 
of her money ; the fluent quotation of poetry, the intimate 
knowledge of history, and the acquaintance with several 
specified games of cards were all made the subjects of 
questions in a postscript which literally bristled with points 
of interrogation. 

The writer of the second letter appeared at first sight to 
be easier to deal with ; she was the widow of a manufact- 
urer living alone in the country, and seemed modest in her 
requirements. Several letters passed between this lady and 
Ulrica, and matters seemed to be progressing towards a 
satisfactory conclusion when, all at once, the manufact- 
urer’s widow drew back. She had only just discovered 
the existence of Ulrica’s title, and the idea of having a 
Countess for her daily companion had evidently been too 
much for her nerves. 

The various other attempts which Ulrica made were as 
so many failures ; either she could not fulfil the demands put 
to her, or else her title was the obstacle. Those who were 
not frightened off by it were suspicious. That a Countess 
Eldringen should be reduced to gaining her livelihood 
seemed to suggest to many people’s minds that there must 
be a screw loose somewhere about her career. Ulrica 
began to realize that the nine points of that diadem, for 
which so many vulgar minds would no doubt envy her, 
were very sharp points indeed ; that they entered into her 
flesh like so many thorns ; that they bristled across her path 
like a hedge which cut her off from more than one honour- 
able employment. Finally she decided that she had no 
more money to spend on advertisements, and gave up the 
attempt. On the same day that she wrote to withdraw the 
advertisement she made a new proposition to the landlady ; 
she offered to remain in her service for six months longer, 
announcing at the same time that from this day forward 
she would ask for wages. Six florins a month was what 
she stipulated, which is about equivalent to six pounds a 
year, not quite so much as most scullery-maids get in Eng- 


PATER SEPP. 


51 


land, but in the eyes of a fustic Austrian landlady an enor- 
mous sum.. 

Ulrica, however, was perfectly well aware of the value 
of her services, and trusted that the business instinct of this 
particular landlady would convince her that she would be 
no loser by the arrangement. She had calculated quite 
rightly, for after a short demur the terms were accepted. 

In this way Ulrica had gained six months’ breathing 
time, at the end of which she would have laid by close 
upon forty florins, enough to enable her to live for at least 
a few weeks in Vienna, for she had long since come to the 
conclusion that the only chance of* obtaining employment 
there lay in being on the spot. 

During several weeks more her plan worked smoothly, 
and then came the first check. 


CHAPTER VI. 

PATER SEPP. 

* We shall have to be thinking of the puddings and cakes 
for next Thursday,’ the landlady said to Ulrica one day. 
‘ Franzl will be home on Wednesday night, and with a fine 
appetite, if I know him rightly.’ 

Franzl was the only son and heir of the house, who had 
left home three and a half years before, as a recruit, and 
who had deeply disappointed his mother by not returning 
to the village in October last, his time having then expired. 
Franzl wished to remain a soldier, while it was the yearn- 
ing of his mother’s heart to mould him into a landlord after 
the pattern of his father. She had laid out his entire future 
for him, including the choice of a wife, having for this pur- 
pose selected the daughter of the wealthy ‘ Apfel Bauer.’ 
The overtures made to the Apfel Bauer had been favour- 
ably received, and there was nothing now wanting but 
for Franzl to come home and win Mirzl’s heart, or at any 
rate lay claim to it, for that article was understood to have 


52 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


belonged to him since the time of their common school- 
going days. All this Ulrica had heard of from the landlady, 
and she had also had the bride-elect pointed out to her in 
church — a round dumpling of a girl with a good-natured 
blue-eyed stare and a pair of yellow plaits pinned round 
her head. 

The cakes being baked and the ingredients for the 
puddings weighed out, Ulrica dismissed all recollection of 
the returning soldier from her mind, until, on entering the 
kitchen on the Wednesday evening, she found herself con- 
fronted by an unknown young man in uniform, who, after 
one deep gape of astonishment, rose to his feet and saluted 
her in the military fashion. 

‘ This is our Franzl,’ said the landlady proudly, while 
the big boyish landlord beat a blushing retreat, as he in- 
variably did before Ulrica. He was of a much less inde- 
pendent turn of mind than his wife, and could not succeed 
in being at his ease in the presence of this titled ‘ kitchen 
help.’ 

‘ He’s trying to make out that he’s only come home on 
a visit,’ the landlady was saying, ‘ and that he must be 
back with his regiment again next week. I’ve been telling 
him that the cakes won’t even be eaten up by that time, 
eh, Franzl? ’ 

But Franzl did not appear to hear. He was staring at 
Ulrica as she moved about the kitchen. Presently, when 
she had gone out again, he observed to his mother : 

‘ Is that the lady who helps you to bake the cakes ? ’ 

‘Lady? Well, they say she’s a Countess, but she’s in 
my service, and I pay her six florins a month ; she’s worth 
it, though.’ 

‘ I should think so ! ’ answered the young soldier, some- 
what more hotly than the occasion seemed to demand. 
Five minutes later he added : ‘It may be that the week 
after next would be time enough for my getting back to 
the regiment.’ 

The landlady had long ago settled in her mind that 
neither the week after next nor any other week should 
he go back to the regiment, but she thought it wiser to 
acquiesce. Even this slight cooling down of his martial 


PATER SEPP. 


53 


ardour was something to have gained, and so rapidly did 
this cooling process go on during the next few days, that 
by rights the landlady’s maternal heart ought to have beat 
high with hope. The maternal eye, however, was in this 
case remarkably keen, and there was something just a 
trifle suspicious in the rapidity of the process. It was just 
as it should be, of course, that Franzl should show symp- 
toms of a newly developed taste in village life, but this 
taste need not have taken the shape of a continual haunt- 
ing of the kitchen and offers of service, which were gener- 
ally more well meant than practical, and occasionally were 
even destructive. Within the first three days of his return, 
the energetic young soldier had reduced two coffee cups 
and five plates to shivers, had severely scalded the cat’s 
back by the upsetting of a pot of boiling water, and had 
twice kicked over the pigs’ pail in his hurry to relieve 
Ulrica of the tray that she was carrying. Soon it began 
to occur to the landlady that a fine, young, healthy 
soldier son of this description, though certainly something 
to be proud of, might yet prove a rather expensive article 
in a kitchen, or even out of a kitchen. It was months be- 
fore the good woman forgot the shock she received when, 
having thought to dispose of Franzl for a time by sending 
him out to cut grass for the goat, the gallant young war- 
rior reappeared, bearing an armful of green wheat, at the 
same time cheerfully announcing that he had thought it 
was better to do the thing thoroughly since he was about 
it, for which reason he had mown down the whole patch 
at a go, so that the goat would be well provided for for 
some days to come. 

‘ It ail comes of his interest in his new life and his eager- 
ness to learn,’ said the landlord, with fatherly leniency ; 
‘just you see, Lenerl, whether he doesn’t do splendidly 
yet. It was only yesterday that he told me how he’d al- 
most made up his mind to give up the soldiering and take 
up the inn after me. That shows clear enough, surely, 
that he is coming round to Mirzl, for every one knows 
that the first thing an inn-keeper requires is a wife.’ 

‘It may be,’ said the landlady drily, ‘but he hasn’t 
fetched her out once yet that I know of.’ 


54 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


But the fond father was not to be damped ; and when, 
on the eve of one of the great ‘ church days ’ of the village, 
Franzl spontaneously offered to assist his father in the at- 
tendance on the guests who were expected to appear in 
large numbers on the morrow, in order, as he said, to take 
his first lesson in the duties of a landlord, the honest man 
positively chuckled at this rapid fulfilment of his prophecy. 

Nor, in the course of the busy and noisy afternoon that 
followed, did the landlord see any cause for a diminution 
of his exultation. It is true that FranzFs manner of strid- 
ing across the inn-garden was more that of a soldier ad- 
vancing to an attack than that of an embryo landlord 
anxious for the entertainment of his guests, and that while 
taking his turn in the Kegelbahn — never wanting in any 
Austrian inn -garden — ^he seemed to regard the ball more 
in the light of a cannon-ball to be hurled at an enemy’s 
head than of a harmless wooden globe destined for the 
knocking down of nine-pins. The nine-pins which he 
knocked down were indeed few, and the toes of unwary 
lookers-on with which he came in painful contact were 
on the other hand many, but all this was only superfluous 
energy and would soften down in time, the landlord argued. 
He had much to learn from his father, the habituh of 
the beer-garden admitted, and especially in the conversa- 
tional line, seeing that he was far from having the elder’s 
knack of entertaining his guests with appropriate remarks 
thrown in to the conversations going on at the various 
tables, remarks which chiefly concerned the weather or the 
prospects of the hay-season or of the apple harvest ; yet it 
was agreed on all hands that, with a little training, Franzl 
* would do.’ 

It was late before the garden was deserted, and only 
after the last guest had departed did Ulrica come down 
from the tiny back-room in which she now lodged. She 
had stipulated that on occasions of this sort she should re- 
main invisible, and accordingly she had spent the afternoon 
alone, busying herself with the sewing on of buttons, the 
fastening of tapes, and various other small repairs about 
her scanty wardrobe, while the hum of voices in the garden 
below, the roll of the ball in the Kegelbahn^ followed by 


PATER SEPP. 


55 


the dull thud of the falling nine-pins, had come to her 
through the open window. Under the heavy branches of 
the horse-chestnut trees it was all but dark already, as she 
now moved about from one deserted table to another col- 
lecting the empty beer-glasses. She had got both her 
hands full and was just considering whether a tray would 
not be the simplest solution of the difficulty, when some 
one stepped unexpectedly out of the shadow of the trees 
and rapidly possessed himself of the glasses in her hand. 
She recognised Franzl, still flushed with the success of the 
afternoon. 

‘ It would be very much wiser,’ remarked Ulrica as she 
yielded up the glasses, ‘ if you were to leave me these and 
clear some of the other tables over there ; there are at 
least twenty more glasses at that other end, not to speak 
of plates and knives and salt-cellars.’ 

She spoke in the most business-like of tones, never hav- 
ing troubled her head as to the possible motives of Franzl’s 
officiousness. During these past ten days she had accepted 
his awkward services with a sorUof amused wonder, not 
untouched by gratitude. 

‘ But I am going to clear the tables over there too,’ said 
Franzl gaily. ‘ Don’t, please don’t,’ as Ulrica moved on 
to the next table. ‘ If you knew how it hurts me to see 
you at work, I am sure you would sit down at once with 
your hands in your lap.’ 

Ulrica very rarely laughed, but Franzl’s tone was now so 
tragi-comical that she broke off into a short laugh. 

‘ But there is nothing that would make me more misera- 
ble than sitting with my hands in my lap ; and, besides, 
your mother pays me for working.’ 

‘ But you were not made for that, any one can see that ; 
perhaps I see it better than the others because I have been 
away from home and have seen what real ladies look like. 
You are made to sit in a carriage like the daughters of our 
Herr Oberst and to wear hats with long feathers in them.’ 

‘ But carriages and feathers cost money, Franzl,’ said 
Ulrica, considerably amused, ‘ and, unhappily, I have got 
none.’ 

Franzl suddenly became very grave. Down went ’ the 


56 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


beer-glasses on to the table with a loud rattle, and he 
stepped close up to Ulrica. 

‘ Is it true that you have no money at all ? That you 
are actually quite, quite poor ? ’ 

‘Yes, that is perfectly true.’ 

‘ Do you think me very rough and bad mannered ? ’ was 
Franzl’s next unexpected question. 

‘ Well, I think you might learn to move about a little 
more carefully,’ answered Ulrica, somewhat startled by the 
change of topic. 

‘ And my manners might be improved in time, might 
they not ? Manners can be improved, can’t they, if one 
tries very hard ? ’ 

‘ I suppose they can. But what makes you ask me these 
questions now % ’ 

‘ It is because I have been thinking,’ said Franzl diffi- 
dently, ‘ that if you don’t think me so very bad you might 
perhaps make up your mind to marry me. Of course I 
know that I am not really good enough for- you, but then, 
even though you are di^rafin, you have told me yourself 
that you have got no money, and I should have enough for 
both, for my father has laid by a good deal, and the “Golden 
Sun” is the only inn in the village. It might not be worse 
for you, after all,’ added Franzl humbly, ‘than having to 
work as you do now ; and if you will have me you need 
never work again, there would be quite enough money to 
keep another girl. I lay awake all last night thinking of 
it ; I hate the landlord business, but I shall learn- it if it can 
save you from working.’ 

Ulrica had been listening in stupefaction ; she began by 
being under the impression that this was a joke, but the 
growing earnestness of Franzl’s tone could not fail very 
rapidly to bear conviction to her mind. She stood op- 
posite to him, unable yet fully to grasp the fact that this 
young peasant was in perfect good faith, and with the 
broadest of rural accents asking her to marry him. She 
had not recovered her presence of mind sufficiently to 
make any answer, when Franzl, apparently encouraged by 
her silence, came a step nearer and seized her hand. His 
diffidence had vanished, he was now the bold soldier, de- 


PATER SEPP. 


57 


termined to risk a headlong attack, and in this new aspect 
and under the influence of the growing excitement which 
showed itself in his flushed face and burning eyes, he be- 
came all at once distinctly offensive to Ulrica’s finer sensi- 
bilities. Up to this moment she had found him merely 
mildly amusing. 

‘ I am not so bad, am I ? ’ he questioned eagerly, with a 
sort of affectionate familiarity dawning in his tone, ‘ nor so 
bad-looking either? There are lots of girls in the village 
who would take me, even without the “ Golden Sun ” ; 
there’s that yellow-haired Mirzl, for instance, whom my 
mother wants me to marry ; but I could never marry any 
yellow-haired woman after having once seen you.’ 

His peasant accent broadened with his eagerness, Ulrica 
could feel upon her face his hot breath, tainted with the 
scent of the cheapest of tobaccoes. 

‘You must be mad!’ she cried, as she tore away her 
hand, ‘ you must be mad or drunk ; I your wife ? You 
my husband? You have forgotten who you are and who 
I am,’ and, turning her back upon him, her head haughtily 
erect, her lips trembling passionately, she left him standing 
alone under the horse-chestnut trees, beside the empty beer- 
glasses. 

Having reached her room, she turned the key in the door 
and sat down upon her bed. Her nerves were still ting- 
ling with the annoyance of the scene just passed. The 
surprise had been overwhelming ; the landlord’s son had 
appeared to her as belonging to such a totally distinct cat- 
egory of beings that the idea of his being in love with her 
had never once come within the range of her conceptions. 
For the first ten minutes after she had locked herself in, she 
positively hated Franzl for having dared to lift his eyes to 
her. Gradually, however, as her pulses calmed down, a 
more sober view of the situation began to obtrude itself 
upon her mind. Franzl, after all, had not had to lift his 
eyes so very high in order to rest them upon her ; what 
was the great difference between them ? She had proudly 
reproached him with forgetting who she was and who he 
was, but, looking at the matter closely, who was she ? A 
friendless, penniless girl with a useless title tacked on to 


58 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

her name. And he? A well-to-do youth with a dis- 
tinct place assigned to him in the world and a comfortable 
home, which he was honestly and honourably ready to 
share with her. Decidedly he had a far better right to 
existence than she had. No, it was not Franzl who was 
to blame for the whole hideous incongruity of the situa- 
tion ; this was only one of the many absurdities insepa- 
rable from her one-sided and wholly unsatisfactory position. 
As she sat on her bed thinking over the scene under the 
horse-chestnut trees, Ulrica did not know whether to laugh 
or to cry. 

She was still sitting thus when she heard the landlady’s 
step in the passage and presently her hand fumbling at the 
door. Ulrica went to the door and unlocked it. The 
landlady walked up to the table with a certain set expres- 
sion of face which Ulrica had learnt to know well, and 
deliberately laid down three paper florins one beside the 
other, passing each florin between her fingers before put- 
ting it down, in order to assure herself that no second florin 
was sticking to it. During this process, and despite the 
accuracy with which it was carried out, Ulrica had occa- 
sion to observe that the woman’s fingers were shaking, and 
she immediately began to foresee what was coming. She 
preferred to meet it half-way. 

‘ You want me to go,’ she said, not as a question but as 
an assertion. 

‘Yes,’ said the landlady, laying down the third paper 
florin. ■ ‘ There is no other way ; you must go. I know I 
shall never get another girl like you in the kitchen, but 
there is no other way. Here are the wages I owe you for 
the next fortnight.’ 

‘ So you wish to turn me out of the house ? Is it to be 
to-night ? ’ 

‘ I should like best to turn you out of the village, if 
I could,’ replied the other, not in the least unkindly, but 
as stating a self-evident fact, ‘ only that I haven’t the right 
to do that. To-morrow will do, however, for your leaving, 
so long as you keep up here till then, and don’t let Franzl 
catch you on the staircase,’ she added, with a suspicious 
look at Ulrica. 


PATER SEPP. 


59 


‘ It will be the worse for him if he does/ said Ulrica 
coldly. 

‘ Oh, as for that,’ and the landlady bristled a little, ' I 
don’t see that any one need look higher than my Franzl, 
even if they have the right to call themselves Countesses ; 
but it’s just as well that you’re sensible about it, for. Coun- 
tess or no Countess, I would never have suffered you to 
become Franzl’s wife. It isn’t titles we want here, it’s a 
good plump purse, such as the Apfel Bauer will be able to 
give to Mirzl. And that’s why you must go, for as long 
as you’re here he’ll never look at Mirzl. The boy’s just 
half distracted. They’re queer certainly, these boys; I 
never myself could see that you were especially good-look- 
ing, but I suppose you must be, from the way Franzl is 
going on. I don’t understand girls not having light hair, 
I’m used to it ; but Franzl has been out in the world and 
has seen women with all manner of hair, I suppose that 
makq^ the difference. You’ll go to-morrow morning with- 
out a noise, won’t you ? I haven’t any grudge against you, 
but you won’t do for my Franzl, you understand that, don’t 
you ? ’ 

‘ Perfectly,’ replied Ulrica, without any bitterness this 
time. There was something perfectly congenial to her in 
this business-like and dispassionate way of viewing the 
situation. She felt as little grudge against the landlady as 
the landlady felt against her ; the two women looked at 
each other quite calmly, almost in a friendly manner, 
across the deal table on which the three florins lay. 

‘ I shall certainly go to-morrow morning. Could you by 
any chance suggest where I am to go to ? ’ 

‘ Well, I’ve been thinking of that as well, and it came into 
my mind that the schoolmaster’s daughters were on the 
lookout for some one that could help them to finish their 
new summer dresses. I can’t say for certain that they 
would take you in, of course, nor whether your sewing 
would be good enough for them ; but you might try, and 
very likely it w'ould give you a roof over your head for a 
week or two.’ 

‘ The schoolmaster doesn’t happen to have a son too, 
does he ? ’ 


6o 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


The landlady stared for a minute. 

‘Oh, I see what you mean. No, there is no son, so 
there wouldn’t be any difficulty of that kind. Besides, as I 
told you, you are not likely to suit the taste of many people 
here. Franzl is an exception. You are too different from 
what they’re used to, you know.’ 

‘That is satisfactory, certainly. Yes, I will try the 
schoolmaster to-morrow.’ 

Next morning as Ulrica, having packed up her few pos- 
sessions and consigned her box to the landlady’s charge 
until sent for, stepped out of the inn door in order to ‘ try 
the schoolmaster,’ a letter with an English postmark was 
put into her hand. It was from her father’s English 
cousin. Sir Gilbert Nevyll, and was written in reply to the 
announcement of his death. She read it as she slowly 
walked up the village street towards the schoolhouse, which 
was situated at the upper end. It was as follows : — 

• 

‘ Morton Hall, April 1880. 

‘ My dear Cousin : Owing to an absence from home 
I have only to-day received your communication, else you 
should have heard from me sooner. I was much shocked 
by your news. Though I never met your father, I had al- 
ways hoped to do so some day, and have often regretted 
the circumstances of distance and of time which led to the 
dying away of the correspondence between these two 
branches of the family. My father, even in his latter days, 
frequently alluded to his “ unknown Austrian nephew.” It 
was kind of you to think of me at this moment, and I 
trust that this renewed correspondence, even though it has 
had a sad cause for its starting point, will not die away as 
entirely as the old one. 

‘ To begin with, you might tell me about yourself. Your 
father’s death must have left you very lonely, unless indeed 
you are staying with his relations, for I believe that you 
have no lack of Austrian uncles and aunts. I do not 
know the name of the place from which your note is dated, 
but, if my memory serves me right, it is not that of the El- 
dringen family seat. Surely you are not alone ? In any 
case do not forget that you have an English cousin who 


PATER SEPP. 


6l 


would be very happy to assist you in any way that lies in 
his power. Yours very sincerely, 

‘ Gilbert Nevyll.’ 

Ulrica was surprised and somewhat indignant with her- 
self when, having finished the perusal of this letter, she dis- 
covered that there was a lump in her throat. Even after 
the first three words she had paused with a strange thrill, 
repeating them over and over again to herself, as though 
to convince herself of their reality. ‘ My dear cousin.’ It 
was the first time that she had ever been addressed in this 
way. She had cousins enough, but not one who cared to 
claim the relationship, or whose claims, on the other hand, 
she herself would have cared to admit. The words of this 
unknown Englishman were the first words of condolence 
which she had heard on the death of her father, for Coun- 
tess Minart’s frosty phrases were not to be counted as such ; 
his letter was the first .sign of sympathy which she had re- 
ceived in her loneliness. The experience was so new and 
unprecedented as to be almost startling. In the middle of 
the village street, as she now was, half-way between the 
house out of which she had been virtually turned and the 
other house into which she had no reason to suppose that 
she would be received, it struck her almost as something 
incre.dible that, in the whole wide world, there should exist 
any one who could think it worth while to ask that ques- 
tion : ‘ Surely you are not alone ! ’ And yet, though she 
never for one moment contemplated the course of making 
use of that overwhelming offer of assistance, there was 
something comforting in the mere fact of its having been 
made. And he spoke almost as though he meant what he 
said. What a strange man he must be ! How totally dis- 
tinct from all Minarts and Tiefenthals that ever lived and 
breathed ! Why did he not look down on her as they did ? 
Why did he not consider it a letting-down of his dignity to 
enter into a correspondence with the daughter of Fanny 
Badl ? Perhaps he had forgotten the circumstances of her 
father’s marriage, perhaps even he had never been properly 
informed ; considering the scanty intercourse which had 
been kept up between the Austrian and the English 


62 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


branches of the family during the last thirty years, this 
ignorance was quite conceivable. 

The lump in Ulrica’s throat had quite melted by this 
time ; it was almost angrily that she pushed back the letter 
into the envelope. Her pride, accustomed as it had be- 
come by circumstances to stand ever armed to the teeth, 
had cast suspiciously about for an explanation of the 
writer’s frank and friendly tone, and she believed now that 
she had hit upon this explanation. 

' I shall write to him to-day,’ said Ulrica, with a hard 
smile. ' He wants to know all about me, oh yes, he shall 
have all the information he wants. I shall give him my 
mother’s pedigree very distinctly ; we shall see then whether 
he still remains as anxious to keep up the correspondence 
with his ‘‘ dear cousin.” ’ 

It was not until late that evening, at the end of a busy 
day, that Ulrica was able to carry this resolution into 
effect. The landlady’s surmise had proved correct and, 
for a week or two, or until the summer wardrobe of the 
two Frauleins Pfanner had been got into order, Ulrica had 
once more secured a roof over her head. The Frauleins 
Pfanner themselves were a couple of freckled and meagre 
damsels, and the specimens of the summer wardrobe at 
present under operation were some alarmingly sky-blue 
garments decorated with such a profusion of ribbon-loops 
that the sisters had felt unable to cope with them unaided. 

‘ Thanks for your letter,’ Ulrica wrote, ‘ but it would not 
be fair to let you compromise yourself by a correspondence 
with me, without making you quite aware of who your cor- 
respondent is. Do you know that my mother was a ser- 
geant’s daughter? A common sergeant, do you under- 
stand? Not a gentleman, and naturally she was not a 
lady. This is a crime which, as I understand, can never 
be condoned ; my Austrian uncles and aunts have taught 
me this. No, this is not the “ family seat the family seat 
was passed over my father’s head to a cousin, my father 
having forfeited all right to it by his marriage. I have 
never seen the family se'at,” and I don’t suppose I should 
be allowed within a hundred miles of it. This is a village 


PATER SEPP. 


63 


in the mountains in which my father died while we were 
on our usual travels, and in which I am attempting to earn 
money enough to be able to go to Vienna. You see, there- 
fore, that to the crime of having a sergeant for a grand- 
father I add the crime of being poor. You had better 
think twice before showing any further interest in such a 
questionable person'as I am.’ 

It had been a necessity to Ulrica to get this explanation 
off her mind, and the fingers with which she stitched away 
at the sky-blue garments next day were all the steadier 
for the relief which the despatching of the letter brought 
her. Sympathy was pleasant, but she would not have it 
upon false pretences. 

The whole remainder of that week was filled to over- 
flowing with the billows and the flounces of those sky-blue 
dresses. Ulrica sat smothered in sky-blue from morning 
till night, listening through the whirr of the sewing-ma- 
chine at her side to the conversation of the two freckled 
sisters ; which chiefly consisted in surmises as to whether 
the dresses would be ready to wear on Sunday, whether 
the weather would be suitable for the inauguration, and 
whether August and Leopold would be there to admire 
them. Ulrica gathered that August and Leopold were 
two youthful tradesmen, who not unfrequently came over 
from the small town which lay out on the plain, in order 
to spend their Sunday afternoon in wandering with the 
Frauleins Pfanner under the pine trees of the valley. 

The mention of their names was generally accompanied 
by a giggle and by a good deal of sisterly and playful ban- 
tering, as to the results to be expected from the burst of 
sky-blue. One of the Frauleins Pfanner was of opinion 
that the rose-coloured toilettes, which were to be taken in 
hand next week, would prove an even more powerful 
means of subjugation. Whether this was actually the case 
or not, Ulrica never had the means of ascertaining, for be- 
fore the dawn of that week, which was to have been as 
deeply steeped in rose-colour as the last had been in sky- 
blue, the Frauleins Pfanner had suddenly discovered that 
her services were no longer required. 

5 


64 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

It was on their return from the usual Sunday walk in 
the forest that the two freckled sisters had made this dis- 
covery. The day had not been a success ; the weather 
was indeed cloudless, and the final stitches had been 
triumphantly put into the new dresses shortly before mid- 
night on the Saturday ; but what was the good of taking 
walks in pine-forests with young tradesmen whose pros- 
pects were ever so excellent, if the conversation was as 
unsatisfactory as it had been this afternoon ? 

Questioned by her elder sister, the younger Fraulein 
Pfanner reluctantly confessed that Leopold had poisoned 
the Sunday stillness of the forest, as well as the peace of 
Fraulein Pfanner’s soul, by the innumerable questions with 
which he plied her as to the tall girl in the black dress of 
whom he had caught a glimpse on the staircase of the 
school-house. Of August, the elder Fraulein Pfanner had 
an even worse account to give, that enterprising young 
grocer having contrived not only to catch a glimpse, but 
even to enter into conversation with the stranger. It was 
at the conclusion of these confessions that the two sisters 
exchanged a glance of understanding, and agreed that they 
were quite able to finish the rose-coloured dresses without 
Ulrica’s aid. 

Ulrica accepted her discharge without a word ; she was 
beginning to get blunted to these shif tings of fate. Seeing 
no other help for it, she paid a visit to the inn and con- 
sulted the landlady as to what her next step should be. 
She had a certain confidence in the landlady’s practical 
turn of mind, and she was aware, besides, that the anxiety 
to help her out of Franzl’s way would probably inflame 
Franzl’s mother with the desire to dispose of her elsewhere 
with the least possible delay. In this she had once more 
calculated rightly, but the difficulties in the way of dis- 
covering a new employment for Ulrica were this time con- 
siderable. The landlady indeed put on her shawl with 
alacrity, and spent pretty nearly the whole of that day in 
tramping round the village with her charge, warmly recom- 
mending her to all among her acquaintances whom she 
judged to be possibly in need of an extra pair of hands in 
the kitchen or in the bake-house, but it was not until late 


PATER SEPP. 


65 

that evening that Ulrica found herself installed in a farm- 
house, tenanted only by an old well-to-do peasant couple, 
for whom she engaged herself to cook, the wife being par- 
tially paralysed and unable to move from her chair. 

It was with a sigh of relief that she laid her head on her 
pillow that night. Surely here she would be able to enjoy 
peace for a little and to ward off starvation, even if nothing 
else were reached. The old couple were childless, there 
were no sons to fall in love with her, no daughters to 
be jealous of her, she foresaw no difficulty on any side. 
Her courage rose again, and with it her confidence in the 
future. 

And yet it was only four days later that she stood again 
in the street, without a roof over her head. How had it 
come about ? In a very simple way, in a way she had 
foreseen from the very morning after her arrival, when she 
had caught the hideous, leering gaze of the old peasant 
fixed greedily upon her face. He had not had a proper 
view of the new ‘ house-girl ’ on the previous evening, for 
his eyes were weak and blear, neither had Ulrica had a 
proper view of her new master. She had seen that his hair 
was white and his shoulders bent, and in the dusk of the 
summer evening she had therefore concluded that he was 
a harmless old peasant. Daylight showed her that this old 
peasant might have sat for the picture of a white-haired 
satyr. There had followed several days, during which she 
had hoped by stern attention to her work to crush all at- 
tempts at the would-be playful but distressingly bucolic 
familiarity which her employer began to display towards 
her, and then had come a moment, when, despite all her 
care, the old man had contrived to surprise her out of sight 
of his wife, had jocularly reproached her with her prudish- 
ness, and had attempted to snatch a kiss. In the next 
instant he found himself tottering back against the wall, 
and by the time he recovered himself the ' house-girl ’ was 
gone, not only out of the wood-shed into which he had 
followed her, but out of the yard and out of the house al- 
together ; nor did she ever come back, not even to sleep 
that night, though it was some time after sunset that mat- 
ters had thus come to a crisis. 


66 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


As Ulrica stood bare-headed in the dusky village street, 
she was panting for breath. A strong disgust shook her 
from head to foot ; she was once more homeless, and the 
night-shadows were fast closing in, but she felt that it 
would be easier to spend the night out here in the street, 
in the forest, anywhere, rather than put her foot again 
within the house from which she had just fled. Mechan- 
cally she turned her steps the same way she had turned 
them on the morning when she had first made acquaintance 
with the village, — towards the forest. 

It was scarcely darker in the forest than it had been in 
the sleeping village, although the moon had not yet risen ; 
nor was Ulrica afraid of darkness. Something like despair 
was beginning to settle down upon her, and the black forest 
suited the black mood. 

She did not sleep that night, but wandered for hours 
among the pine trees, not knowing and not caring what 
was to become of her, aware only by the striking of ihe 
church clock in the valley that the night was slowly wear- 
ing towards morning. Her heart was hot and rebellious ; 
what had she done that she should be thus hunted from 
spot to spot ? Was there no place in the world where she 
could find rest ? It was not comfort she asked for, not 
kindness, she was willing to work and to suffer alone ; why 
could she not be allowed to do so ? Since so much had 
been withheld from her, why had not more been withheld ? 
Why had those two fatal gifts, her beauty and her coronet, 
been flung to her? Her beauty, which exposed her to a 
thousand dangers, her coronet, which was no more than a 
stumbling-block in her path, a leaden weight chained to 
her foot and which she must needs drag with her which- 
ever way she turned, a fool’s cap with which the mockery 
of Fate had crowned herj and whose teasing bells jingled 
derisively in her ear. 

‘ If I were plain as well as poor, it would be much easier 
to earn my bread,’ she reflected. ‘ But I know that I am 
not plain, and I am afraid that my looks are of a sort 
which it will take a great many years of misery to wear 
out. Girls with no money have no right to be beautiful ; 
my eyes should be small, and my cheeks sallow, and my 


PATER SEPP. 67 

shoulders narrow, then perhaps there might be a chance 
for me in the world.’ 

Ulrica was under the impression that she had wandered 
far into the forest, but dawn, to her surprise, showed her 
the village at her feet. She was now sitting upon a block 
of stone, faint with hunger and sleeplessness, and yet hav- 
ing formed no plan of where she was to spend the day, 
which was bursting in rosy splendour over the hills. A 
narrow footpath wound in and out of the pine trees, and 
somewhere just out of sight the river was gurgling and 
splashing. Presently Ulrica’s head sank back against the 
broad stem beside her, and she fell into an exhausted 
sleep. 

She awoke with a start, not aware of having heard any 
sound, but feeling instinctively that she was no longer 
alone. On the path, straight opposite to the block of 
stone on which she sat, an old man stood, holding a book 
which he had closed over his finger, and was regarding her 
with a mixture of deep pity and perplexed surprise. 

Ulrica recognised the old priest who had buried her 
father, and had been one of the witnesses in whose pres- 
ence the notary had broken the seals of her father’s pos- 
sessions. She had seen Pater Sepp, as he was generally 
called, more than once since then, in the church and in the 
street, but had never again spoken to him. She looked at 
him now indifferently, not rising from her stone. 

‘ Do you know that your hair is quite wet with the dew, 
my child,’ said the old priest in a voice of mild agitation, 
‘and that your hands are scratched with thorns? You 
must have sat here for a long time.’ 

‘ No, only since about midnight,’ answered Ulrica, look- 
ing at him with fierce grey eyes. 

‘ Since midnight ? All by yourself ? Good God ! Why 
were you not in your bed ? ’ 

‘ I haven’t got any bed.’ 

The old priest looked more and more perplexed. 

‘ But have you done this often before ? I mean, where 
did you spend the other nights ? ’ 

‘ In a house.’ 

‘ But why — ’ 


68 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


‘ Why am I not there now ? Because an old man in- 
sulted me, a man with hair as white as yours,’ added 
Ulrica, with a sort of grim satisfaction at the increasing 
horror on Pater Sepp’s face. ‘ He followed me into the 
wood-shed before supper, and tried to kiss me.’ 

Pater Sepp’s questions irritated her ; she wished he would 
leave her in peace, and she thought to shock him by the 
recklessness of her words would be the easiest way to rid 
herself of him. 

And shocked he certainly was, though not in the way 
she had expected. 

‘Before supper!’ he repeated in horror-stricken tones. 
‘And you have been out ever since — without your supper? 
My poor child, this is terrible! It would not have been 
nearly so bad if — ’ 

‘ If he had waited until after supper ? ’ finished Ulrica, 
and burst into a helpless laugh ; she was too weak to resist 
the impulse. 

‘ You may laugh, my child, for you are young, but there 
is nothing so terrible as hunger, it is the only real misfort- 
une in the world — hunger and thirst, I have known them 
myself. Oh, why did you not come to me ? ’ 

‘ To you ? Why should I have come to you f ’ she re- 
plied brusquely. ‘ What are you to me ? What right have 
you to ask me questions or to stand here and pity me, 
when I never asked for pity? No one has any right to 
pity me. I wish you would leave me alone.’ 

‘ I will leave you alone if you wish,’ said the old priest 
humbly, ‘ but I cannot bear the idea of your being hungry ; 
I was wondering whether I had anything to give you.’ 

He was fumbling as he spoke in the pocket of his thread- 
bare soutane. 

‘ He is going to give me money,’ thought Ulrica, setting 
her teeth ; ‘ have I come to this ? ’ 

But it was not money which he presently drew forth, it 
was a thick slice of black bread which he held timidly to- 
wards Ulrica. She dashed it aside so vehemently that it 
fell from his hand to the ground. 

‘ I told you once before that I am not a beggar to be 
offered alms,’ she said, with flaming cheek. ‘ Keep that 


PATER SEPP. 


69 

piece of bread for the next cripple that you meet by the 
roadside.’ 

‘ It was not for beggars that I brought the bread with 
me, there are never any beggars in the wood ; it was for 
the birds, the chaffinches and the thrushes ; they generally 
follow me as I say my breviary, and I like to feed them.’ 

The old man as he spoke had stooped to pick the bread 
from the ground, and was now carefully and patiently re- 
moving the particles of earth and the dry fir-needles which 
clung to it. 

‘ Am I a chaffinch or a thrush, I wonder ? ’ Ulrica asked 
herself, wavering once more on the verge of over-excited 
laughter. 

In spite of herself the bitterness was melting within her ; 
under the irresistible influence of this simple-hearted sym- 
pathy the hardness about her heart was beginning to soften 
a little. Presently, too, as she sat still on her stone, watch- 
ing the old man’s manipulations with the bread, it began to 
become clear to her that in truth she was suffering the 
keenest pangs of hunger. Until she had seen the bread 
she had not known how hungry she was, but now she could 
almost have sprung from her seat and torn it from the old 
priest’s hand. She was not aware of it, but the gaze she 
had fixed upon the bread betrayed all this. The priest, 
raising his eyes at the end of his operations and meeting 
that hungry look, instinctively held out the crust again. 
Ulrica hesitated, glanced into his face, looked back at the 
bread, and then put out her hand for it. There was not a 
word said, but the old priest had conquered. She ate the 
bread eagerly, he watching her the while with intense satis- 
faction. At the end she drew a long breath. 

‘ I feel better now, I think I could sleep again,’ and she 
leant her head once more against the stem behind her. 

‘ But not here, surely ; you must not sleep out here.’ 

‘ I have told you that I have no place to go to.’ 

‘ Come with me, I will give you a place. There is 
plenty of room in the Pfarrhof. You trust me, do you 
not ? ’ 

‘ I trust nobody,’ said Ulrica, still sullenly, but she was 
beginning to waver. When Pater Sepp said again, ‘ Come 


70 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


with me,’ she rose from her stone heavily and slowly, and 
without a word allowed him to take her by the hand and 
to lead her back towards the village as though she had 
been a child. 


CHAPTER YII. 

THE MARIENHOF. 

Down the entire length of the village street, Ulrica was 
led by Pater Sepp, past the inn, past the churchyard, past 
the church, and up a narrow lane. She walked in a sort 
of stupor, not observing where she was until a gate fell 
shut behind her. Then she raised her head. They had 
entered a shady space, shut off apparently from the sur- 
rounding lanes and meadows by a high but crumbling wall. 
On one side stood a house which might have been a freshly 
painted toy taken out of a box, so white were the walls, so 
brightly green the shutters. Above the open door the fig- 
ure of the Virgin was daubed in blue and red upon the 
whitewash. The neat and compact little building stood 
upon a neat and compact square, which, being sanded with 
river sand and carefully raked, formed a symmetrical and 
unbroken pale yellow border to the toy house. But out- 
side the edge of this sanded strip all symmetry ceased ; 
even the grass that touched it grew wild and at its will. 
The rest of this little enclosed domain was an orchard, 
which at the same time was partly garden and partly yard, 
for some rustic out-buildings and a primitive pump spout- 
ing its water into a wooden trough were to be seen from 
between the fruit trees, while to the right a confused blaze 
of flowers flashed through the staves of a paling, and spread 
itself up to the walls of a second house, dimly to be dis- 
tinguished in the background. It was to the neat white 
house that the old priest led the way, making a slight detour 
in order not to disturb a grey cat who was lapping a saucer 
of milk set out upon the sanded path, and a little further 


THE MARIENHOF. 


71 


on stooping to give an encouraging pat to a starved-looking 
dog hungrily gnawing a bone. Sparrows were picking up 
crumbs on the threshold, and altogether it seemed that 
breakfast had been laid out here for every sort of living 
creature. An old woman was summoned, and Ulrica, 
rendered passive by extreme fatigue, suffered herself to be 
conducted to a small whitewashed room, and presently 
was lying sound asleep upon the ‘ guest-bed ’ of the Pfarr- 
hof. 

It was past midday before she awoke. Pater Sepp had 
finished his frugal meal, but had taken care to have an 
ample supply of soup, boiled beef, and vegetables kept 
warm for his guest. He sat opposite to her while she ate 
them, and rubbed his hands delightedly at every mouthful 
she swallowed. Ulrica had given up attempting to harden 
her heart against him, and after a time, very much to her 
own surprise, she found herself talking to him about her 
father, about her poverty, and about how she had no idea 
where she was to sleep that night. At this Pater Sepp 
rubbed his hands a little harder. 

‘ But I have thought of that,’ he said eagerly ; ‘ it came 
into my head while you were asleep, and I could scarcely 
wait until you awoke in order to tell you. You can sleep 
in the Marienhof, that is the second house, you know, over 
on the other side ; it is quite empty now, and there are 
several rooms. You can sleep there for many nights.’ 

When Ulrica had done eating. Pater Sepp fetched a big 
rusty key and led the way across the orchard to the Marien- 
hof, of which she had as yet only caught a glimpse between 
the trees. As they walked towards it, he explained to her 
that the older house had originally been the only house 
here, but that his predecessor, who had apparently been of 
a speculative turn of mind, had persuaded the bishop to 
have a new house built for the priest to live in, the original 
Pfarrhof being turned into a species of dairy establishment 
which the Pfarrer had a right either to work on his own 
account, or to lease to any honest and God-fearing inhab- 
itant of the village whose mode of life made him appear 
worthy of being installed upon this quasi-sacred ground, 
something on the principle of a ‘ prize of virtue,’ like the 


72 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


Rosaire of France or the Pope’s Golden Rose. The specu- 
lative predecessor had pursued the first of these plans, and 
there was a legend to the effect that never had there been 
such sleek, plump cows, nor such thick cream, nor such 
delicious butter as in the time of the enterprising Pater 
Martin. The souls of the parishioners may possibly not 
have been quite so well looked after as the cows ; on this 
point the legend was silent, but it was very positive as to 
the fact of Pater Martin having lived a much more luxu- 
rious life than that of most village priests, and of his having 
died bequeathing a comfortable little fortune to the young 
niece who had kept house for him. In stepping into his 
shoes Pater Sepp had not stepped in his footsteps, that is 
to say, he had, after a brief but ineffectual struggle to bring 
the claims of the parishioners’ souls and the cows into har- 
mony with each other, abandoned the attempt to work the 
dairy himself, and handed over the concern to one of the 
most deserving of the aforenamed parishioners. A deserv- 
ing parishioner is, however, not always necessarily a suc- 
cessful dairyman, and men who are selected for the piety 
of their demeanour are not invariably to be counted on for 
the judicious management of a cow-byre. It did not prove 
so, at any rate in this case, nor in several other subsequent 
cases, for the years that followed saw the lease of the 
Marienhof pass from one pair of unskilful hands into an- 
other, and the Marienhof itself, by dint of a long course 
of failures, sank so low in the public -estimation that even 
the most God-fearing of the villagers began to fight shy of 
the prize of virtue. The end had been the complete bank- 
ruptcy of the last of the virtuous dairymen, and for nearly 
two years past the Marienhof had been untenanted, the 
byres empty, and even the grass on the stretch of meadow- 
land which belonged to the establishment uncropped, or 
only cropped promiscuously by the various cows of the vil- 
lage. 

Something of all this Pater Sepp told Ulrica as they 
crossed the orchard together. The path on which they 
walked was all but grass-grown, the fruit trees around them 
had shed their blossoms some little time back and their 
thickly set branches gave rich hopes for the autumn, but it 


THE MARIENHOF. 


73 


was evident that no watchful eye and no tending hand had 
been near them for long. They stood knee-deep in the 
long, waving grass, broken branches had been left to wither 
where they fell, yellow toadstools had been allowed to 
gather on the stems. The bright patch of flowers of which 
Ulrica had caught a glimpse as she entered showed itself 
to be the wreck of a once gay garden, at the back of which 
stood a long rambling farmhouse with deep overhanging 
eaves, and a rudely carved wooden balcony, blackened 
with time, running round its three sides. This was the 
Marienhof. 

‘ The last tenant used to supply me with all the flowers 
I needed in the church,’ explained Pater Sepp, as he 
pushed open the low garden-gate which hung on one rusty 
hinge. Even now a certain amount of material for altar 
decoration might have been found within the wildly gay 
square which ran the entire length of the farmhouse front. 

‘Ah! the High Altar used to be worth looking at at 
Pentecost,’ said Pater Sepp, with a little regretful sigh, as 
he indicated a part of the garden which had evidently been 
exclusively devoted to the cultivation of peonies, the 
‘ Pentecost roses ’ so dear to the Austrian peasant’s heart. 
The great round clumps were now hard pressed by giant 
nettles ; one single bush, a little apart, with its red petals 
shed around it, stood as though in a pool of blood. 

‘And what lilies we used to have for the Virgin’s altar!’ 
said Pater Sepp, still regretfully. 

The wrecks of the lily bed were visible still, but of the 
few white emblems of purity which had struggled into a 
neglected life there was scarcely one which had not been 
dragged earthward by the weight of twining white convol- 
vuli. By a curious whim of nature the ‘ lily corner ’ had 
thus remained as spotless in appearance as in the days 
when it had furnished bunches for the vases on the Virgin’s 
altar. The spot, in fact, was of a dazzling whiteness, white 
not only with the half-strangled lilies and the riotous con- 
volvuli, but white also at this moment with countless but- 
terflies softly swaying above the mass of flowers in the 
afternoon sunshine. It was not even always easy to dis- 
tinguish which were the flowers and which the butterflies. 


74 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


for among the blossoms there were some that sat so lightly 
on their stems that they might almost have been butterflies, 
while among the butterflies many hung so motionless that 
they appeared to be all but flowers. 

The house bore upon it the same stamp as did the 
garden and the orchard, the stamp of good material lying 
waste, of neglected opportunities and of a wealth of com- 
fort which waited only to be claimed. There were the traces 
of a once gaudy Madonna — the ghost, it almost seemed, 
of that upon the newer house — still faintly showing above 
the door. Round one corner of the house a crazy old pear 
tree clung, clasping it in an obstinate embrace and making 
a pretence of supporting the balcony upon its gnarled and 
twisted old branches. 

As Pater Sepp turned the rusty key in the keyhole, the 
sound echoed within the empty house, and from the dark 
recesses of the balcony above some birds darted out, 
startled by this unwonted intrusion. The room within was 
dark, except for the shafts of sunshine which slipped in 
through the heart-shaped openings in the wooden shutters. 
Pater Sepp groped his way forward and threw back one of 
the shutters; the light which burst in showed an empty 
room, with a low rafter ceiling and a worm-eaten board 
floor. Leaning out by the open window, Ulrica found 
herself looking out straight across the road and towards the 
river which flowed beyond. By the foot-bridge and the 
crucifix straight opposite and the low green bank which 
swelled up almost within touch of her hand, she recognised 
that the house she was in was that same old farmhouse so 
quaintly built into its own orchard wall which she had no- 
ticed on the morning of her first inspection of the village. 

There was a goodly array of rooms in the old house, all 
with solid rafter ceilings and huge blue or green stoves 
blocking an entire corner. All were empty, except for 
some rickety tables or three-legged chairs which had evi- 
dently not been considered worth the trouble of moving. 
Deserted spider-webs, the wings of long-dead victims still 
quivering in their meshes, hung across many of the corners. 

‘ You wouldn’t be frightened to sleep here alone ? ’ asked 
Pater Sepp a little later. ' A bed can easily be carried 


THE MARIENHOF. 


75 


over ; you can’t sleep in the Pfarrhof because it is against 
the rule. Do you think this house will do for to-night ? ’ 

‘ Yes,’ said Ulrica, somewhat absently. They had made 
the round of the whole little enclosed domain, they had 
passed by the spouting pump and looked into the empty 
cow-byres, where the nettles grew quite luxuriantly out of 
the earthen floor. Ulrica was now sitting on a dilapidated 
bench beside the doorway of the farmhouse, and as she 
looked around her a strange unaccustomed feeling of peace 
began to lay itself upon her troubled spirit. The butterflies 
had left the convolvuli by this time, and the convolvuli 
themselves had tightly twisted up their blossoms for the 
night. The slanting rays of the setting sun, shooting over 
the orchard wall, tipped the moss-grown branches of the 
fruit trees with gold. 

‘ I think this place could be made very beautiful,’ said 
Ulrica, almost dreamily, ‘ there seems so much to be done. 
I think one could be very happy here.’ 

Later on in the evening, she startled the old priest by a 
sudden question : 

‘ How much does a cow cost ? ’ she asked abruptly. 

' Between forty and fifty florins,’ answered Pater Sepp in 
amazement. ‘But, my dear child, are you thinking of 
buying a cow ? ’ 

‘No,’ said Ulrica, with a short laugh, ‘but I was think- 
ing what a pity it is that I am not a virtuous peasant with 
money enough to lease the farm.’ 

‘ But they have all left the place beggars, my dear.’ 

‘ That can only be because they were bunglers ; prob- 
ably they worked too much with their hands and too little 
with their brains; I am certain I could make a good thing 
out of it.’ 

‘ Then it is a great pity that you are not a peasant,’ said 
Pater Sepp, much distressed. 

Early next morning, when Ulrica stepped out of the old 
house, she perceived the. priest advancing eagerly towards 
her, up the weed-grown garden-walk. 

‘ I have been thinking of it half the night,’ he broke out, 
even before he had reached her. ‘ I have looked at it 
from every side, and I don’t see why it need matter.’ 


76 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


‘ Why what need matter f ’ 

‘Your not being a peasant. If you really think you 
could make the Marienhof pay, why should you not try the 
experiment! You have told me already that you have no 
other place to go to.’ 

Ulrica was silent for a minute in absolute surprise. 

‘ My not being a peasant might not matter so much, but 
how about my not being a man ! ’ 

‘ I take that responsibility upon myself,’ answered the 
old priest, not without a certain dignity. 

‘And the money! Have you thought of that trifle! 
Where is the money to come from to set the thing agoing ! ’ 

Pater Sepp had thought of the money, though he had 
come to no very positive conclusion. He had thought of 
returning to the system adopted by his predecessor, and, 
for a time at least, working the dairy on his own account 
through the medium of Ulrica : that is, until Ulrica had 
gained sufficient ground to take the lease of it herself. 

Ulrica very quickly caught at the idea. The rest of 
that day was devoted to calculation and discussion, and 
before a week had passed Ulrica was definitely established 
at the Marienhof. It had been agreed that the dairy was 
to be started on the smallest possible scale, to be increased 
only in measure as it promised to be successful. No more 
than four cows stood in the byre, though there was room 
there for twenty, and one milkmaid represented, as yet, 
the entire serving establishment. In return for her super- 
intendence of the dairy Ulrica received the free use of the 
house and a certain percentage of the profits. 

On the same day that the final agreement was come to, 
Ulrica walked up the village street and spent most of her 
few remaining florins in the village shop. She came back 
carrying a large parcel of black woollen stuffs, another of 
white linen, and a third which contained a square black 
silk handkerchief, such as the peasant women of the coun- 
try wore. During several nights she slept little, but sat up 
stitching away by the light of one candle. A few days 
later Pater Sepp, coming out of his house in the morning, 
was surprised to see a tall young peasant woman, whom he 
did not recognise as one of his parishioners, working away 


THE FIRST HUNDRED FLORINS. 77 

in the garden of the Marienhof. When he got a little 
nearer he saw that this was Ulrica. Except for the ab- 
sence of the smallest touch of colour, she was equipped 
from head to foot like any other woman in the village. 

‘ Since I am to do a peasant’s work, I may as well wear 
a peasant’s dress,’ she explained to Pater Sepp. ‘ I feel 
safer dressed in this way, I shall be less conspicuous. I 
am a peasant now, you know.’ 

‘ Y e-es, I suppose so,’ said Pater Sepp, looking at her 
somewhat doubtfully. 

Ulrica spoke in perfect good faith. In donning the 
plain black skirt and bodice, the homely white sleeves and 
clumsy shoes of the district, she had honestly meant to 
amalgamate herself with her surroundings. She had in- 
tended the quaint yet ungainly costume to act as a disguise 
to that inconvenient beauty for which she saw no reason 
to be thankful to Fate. She had hoped to conceal her 
shapely waist under the shapeless bodice, to counteract 
grace and agility by the graceless volume of her full skirts ; 
she had hidden away her wealth of hair, compressing it 
into the tightest of plaits, and forcing its rebellious waves 
to lie smooth under the black silk handkerchief which was 
drawn over her white forehead with an almost nunlike au- 
sterity. Her dress was a stem reality, bearing no relation- 
ship to those pretty caricatures which are to be seen at 
every fancy ball ; and yet, for all that, and despite his in- 
experience, which was as that of a child. Pater Sepp’s 
‘ Ye-es ’ given in answer to Ulrica’s triumphant assertion 
sounded very doubtful indeed. Perhaps he dimly felt that 
black serge and white linen alone are not enough to make 
a real peasant. 


CHAPTER VIIL 

THE FIRST HUNDRED FLORINS. 

A YEAR and more had passed since the day on which 
Ulrica, in knotting that black silk handkerchief round her 


78 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


head, had thought to cut herself off forever from all the 
world that was not Glockenau. 

Summer had come again, and Ulrica was once more at 
work in the garden of the Marienhof, no longer the untidy, 
weed-grown square it had been when she first set foot 
within it, but a well-cared-for array of gay beds, a perfect 
treasure-house of ' church decorations,’ enough to delight 
the heart of Pater Sepp and to fill the vases on his altars 
to overflowing. Never in the days of the most virtuous of 
the dairymen had there been such a mass of peonies at 
Pentecost, nor such basketsful of rose-leaves at Corpus 
Christi, while in June the resuscitated lily corner had been 
a sight to see. 

The change .in the garden was but one feature in the 
change which pervaded the whole Marienhof. The or- 
chard had a certain well-to-do appearance which this time 
last year it had entirely lacked, heavily-laden branches had 
been propped, dead trees had been removed. The gate 
had two whole hinges now, instead of one broken one, the 
missing staves of the paling had been replaced. A curl of 
smoke rose from the chimney of the house ; there were no 
more broken panes in the windows, nor dusty spider-webs 
in the comers. The path which led from the house to the 
cow-byre had been once more trodden into existence, and 
in the cow-byre, now innocent of nettles and redolent with 
fresh hay, there presently will be standing the ten plump 
and well-cared-for cows that now form the stock of the es- 
tablishment and that are at this moment still cropping the 
grass on the Marienhof pasture down by the river-side. 

And all this change was Ulrica’s work. It had been a 
hard struggle, but the dairy had proved a complete success, 
a success which promised in time to eclipse even the mem- 
ory of the palmiest days of Pater Martin. After a little 
more than a year, Ulrica began to see the day within reach 
on which she would be able to become the real mistress of 
the Marienhof. Already she had made the first step in 
that direction by purchasing as her own property nearly 
half of the cows which formed the stock of the establish- 
ment. 

Despite the constant wear and tear of hard work, it had 


THE FIRST HUNDRED FLORINS. 79 

been the happiest year of Ulrica’s life. At last she had 
found a spot on which to rest, at last she had gained an 
outlet for her energies. She had also found a protector, 
and one to whom she had attached herself with all that 
fund of affection which had lain unclaimed since her father’s 
death. That Pater Sepp was no more than a peasant in a 
soutane Ulrica had very soon discovered, but she had si- 
multaneously felt that an ignorance so innocent and a 
charity so boundless made cultivation appear as something 
absolutely superfluous. It was physical suffering which 
almost exclusively called forth the expression of this char- 
ity. Mental anguish was a thing which had never crossed 
Pater Sepp’s unchecquered existence, and with which, 
therefore, he was somewhat puzzled how to deal; but 
hunger and thirst were palpable, he had felt them himself 
in his youth, these therefore he could measure and sound 
by the light of his past experience. So bitter had this ex- 
perience been — for Pater Sepp’s father had been but a 
poor laboiurer — that to this day the old priest could not 
bear to see as much as a dog or a sparrow go hungry from 
his door, let alone a human being. The ever-replenished 
saucer of milk and the perpetual bone to be found beside 
his doorstep were results of his susceptibility on this point. 
Even to the mouse-holes in the kitchen, morsels of cheese 
which had certainly not been put there by the grumbling 
old housekeeper had a knack of finding their way. If 
Pater Sepp had not felt too deeply for the flies, it is prob- 
able that the very spiders that spun their webs across the 
wooden trellis against the house- wall would have had their 
breakfast provided for them. ‘To feed the hungry ’was 
evidently the mission for which Pater Sepp had been sent 
into this world. He aspired to no higher. To settle a 
religious scruple was a responsibility which the humble- 
minded old priest would never have taken upon himself. 
Religious scruples were things he did not know. For him 
the world was divided into people who had enough to eat 
and people who had not enough to eat, and as long as he 
starved himself in order to keep others from starving his 
conscience made him no reproach. His own priesthood 
awed him so deeply that though it was close upon fifty 
6 


8o 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


years now since he had said his first Mass, he had never 
quite recovered from the surprise of finding himself raised 
to such dignity. There was not one of Pater Sepp’s pa- 
rishioners who could remember having received from him 
any more intricate counsel than that of trusting in Provi- 
dence, and confidently counting that Providence would 
cause everything to come right ‘ somehow,’ and yet every 
person who was in trouble came straight to Pater Sepp — 
not for advice, but in order to be patted on the back by 
the feeble old hand and to read true sympathy in the faded 
blue eyes, and to go away comforted if not enlightened. 
For half a century he had thus dispensed bread and con- 
solation, leading a life which was as open and as clear and 
as easy to read to its depth as that crystal river over the 
road, through whose waters every pebble was to be seen 
as distinctly as though no water were there. 

It was not long before Ulrica’s protector began to feel a 
certain awe of the young woman whom he had undertaken 
to protect. Hitherto no one had ever interfered with his 
voluntary starvations, which he disguised under the title of 
‘ extra fasts,’ nor with his inveterate habit of barefacedly 
over-paying every workman who so much as put in a nail 
to the trellis on the Pfarrhof wall. He had always been 
at liberty to go supperless to bed as often as a stray beggar 
turned up at the door, but after Ulrica’s installation in the 
Marienhof it seemed that all this was to be otherwise. 
From the day on which she had found the foolish old 
priest sitting in his ice-cold room with blue lips and chat- 
tering teeth, having given away his last piece of firewood 
to a troop of gypsies who had passed that way, Ulrica had 
felt it her duty to exercise a stern control over his unwar- 
ranted liberality. 

‘ Have you given away your coat as well ? ’ she asked 
when she found him thus upon that bitter December after- 
noon, for Pater Sepp was sitting in his shirt-sleeves. But 
to her surprise she caught sight of the coat hanging on the 
chair beside him. And then Pater Sepp somewhat shame- 
facedly explained. Finding that he was growing intoler- 
ably chilled sitting in the unheated room, it had occurred 
to him that by taking off his coat for ten minutes at a time. 


THE FIRST HUNDRED FLORINS. 8 1 

and thus chilling himself by a few further degrees, he could 
produce a species of artificial reaction which would make 
him feel quite warm by comparison, for at least five minutes, 
every time he resumed his upper garment. It was an in- 
vention of his own, and he had been rather proud of it ; 
but cowed by Ulrica’s peremptory tone, he meekly slipped 
back into his coat, and from that moment forward her do- 
minion over him was secure. 

It followed almost unavoidably that by interfering with 
Pater Sepp’s suicidal system of charity, Ulrica became her- 
self mixed up with these same charities. In order to be 
able the better to control the old priest’s movements, she 
constituted herself into his representative and adjutant, and 
very soon there was not a house in the village under whose 
roof poverty dwelt that was not familiar with the tall figure 
of the ‘ Grafin ’ — for the ‘ Grafin ’ she remained, despite 
her peasant’s dress — a basket of provisions on her arm, 
stealing a moment of her own busy day in order to admin- 
ister some urgently required relief. Ulrica had in a high 
degree that keen sympathy which the poor generally feel 
towards the poor. Something, too, of a rebellious instinct 
may have served to deepen her interest in the work. 
These people had been ill-used by the same blind fate 
which had done its best to wreck her life ; they stood on 
the same side of the battle, she would help them to fight 
their destiny with all the means at her command. 

And thus Ulrica had found not only a resting-place, but 
also a mission. Her installation in the Marienhof had 
caused no small excitement in its time, but the ‘ Grafin ’ 
had long since come to be accepted as a fact. From the 
moment that she had placed herself under Pater Sepp’s 
protection her position had been secured, and to some 
it even became difficult to imagine the village without 
her. 

The only communication which during this past year 
Ulrica had kept up with the outer world was a series of 
letters which she had exchanged with her English relation 
Sir Gilbert Nevyll. The first of these, an answer to the 
defiant information concerning her mother’s parentage 
which she had hurled at his head, had been written in a 


82 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


tone of considerable amusement. He did not appear 
crushed by the news she gave him. 

' I can assure you,’ he wrote, in his easy, flowing hand, 
* that your opening phrase with the threatened disclosure 
as to “ who my correspondent is ” made me feel exceed- 
ingly uncomfortable. If your mother had been the daugh- 
ter of a convicted forger you could not possibly have more 
considerately prepared my mind. I am very much inter- 
ested to hear that your grandfather was a sergeant. I 
have always believed that a great deal of the honour of an 
army depends upon its sergeants. I hope there wasn’t 
anything wrong about this particular sergeant? as your 
tone almost seems to imply. He didn’t run away in a 
battle, did he ? ’ 

A little further on he adopted a more serious tone. The 
contents of Ulrica’s letter had taken him completely by 
surprise, and so shocked was he by the idea of her forlorn 
position, that, writing upon the impulse of the moment, he 
had not scrupled in the most straightforward of terms, and 
upon the strength of their relationship, to offer her pecuni- 
ary assistance. This well-meant but ill-advised idea had 
once more aroused Ulrica to wrath against her unknown 
cousin. She angrily questioned her memory as to the ex- 
act contents of that letter written so hastily by the light of 
the school-house candle, and her cheeks burnt with vexa- 
tion as she told herself that the account of her penniless 
condition, which she had intended solely as a stem tribute 
to truth, had, to the eyes of the wealthy Sir Gilbert Nevyll, 
very possibly looked like a disguised demand for money. 
This, of course, was not to be borne, and the offer was re- 
jected by return of post, in terms that were more distinct 
than strictly civil. 

‘ I require no assistance and will accept of no assistance,’ 
wrote Ulrica. ‘ Thank Heaven, I am strong enough to 
take care of myself. Why is it that rich people consider 
themselves at liberty to insult poor people without provoca- 
tion ? Or is it possible, can it be possible that you thought 
I was begging ? ’ 


THE FIRST HUNDRED FLORINS. 


83 


The answer to this second letter of Ulrica’s was not long 
in coming, and again there was a suggestion of amusement 
to be read between the lines. 

‘ Austrian pride seems to be a most inflammable article,’ 
the letter ran. ‘ With regard to that accusation of a desire 
to insult, my conscience feels quite easy. It merely oc- 
curred to me that, since your Austrian relations seem to 
have abandoned you in the most shameful manner, it 
naturally became my business to look after you. Of 
course, after the snub you have given me, I daren’t insist 
upon this point ; but if you ever are in what we in Eng- 
land call a “ fix,” will you promise to let me help you ? I 
feel that I am very bold in making this request, but if you 
knew what it feels like to be a useless member of society, 
you would make allowances for a poor fellow who snatches 
at the chance of keeping more useful people alive.’ 

This had the effect of making Ulrica feel somewhat 
ashamed of her vehemence, and . after this, though the 
promise was not given, and the request in fact carefully ig- 
nored, the correspondence assumed a calmer character. 
* Don’t you think that we might now conclude in peace ? ’ 
Sir Gilbert had written, and peace accordingly had been 
concluded. 

The letters that passed between them were not frequent, 
one perhaps in every month or two, but by degrees they 
came to be landmarks in Ulrica’s lonely life. She looked 
forward with an interest ever on the increase to the days 
which would bring her the letter with the well-known hlac 
stamp. She had very soon divined that the writer of those 
letters was not a happy man, though he seldom spoke of 
himself, never referring to his personal circumstances, and 
generally confining himself to inquiries concerning the prog- 
ress of the dairy and Ulrica’s general mode of life. 

‘ Tell me as much as you like about your cows and your 
hens and your garden,’ he wrote more than once ; ‘ to a 
i lonely fellow such as I am, your letters are all interesting.’ 

I That reference to the ‘ useless member of society ’ had 
not been the only betrayal of self-dissatisfaction which had 


84 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


escaped him. ' How I envy you your work,’ he wrote on 
one occasion. ‘When I was very young and foolish it 
used to be the dream of my life to earn my own bread. I 
am old and wise now, and yet faint visions of that dream 
still haunt me occasionally. There is no saying whether I 
may not yet take to potato-digging in my old age.’ 

‘ Poor old man,’ had been Ulrica’s reflection, ‘ I suppose 
he is what they call blasL Very likely he is gouty, I have 
heard that rich people very often become gouty, and, of 
course, that must spoil one’s enjoyment of life. If he feels 
his loneliness so much, I wonder why he hasn’t married % 
Old bachelors are so apt to become crusty.’ 

As Sir Gilbert was her father’s cousin, and therefore be- 
longed to an older generation than herself, Ulrica never 
thought of him otherwise than as an elderly gentleman. 

‘Yes, it had been a happy year,’ Ulrica said to herself, 
as she watered her garden upon the August evening where 
we again find her at work. 

The long rows of flowers on both sides of her stood mo- 
tionless, for there was no breath of air stirring ; here and 
there only some aster or carnation which a bee had just 
left was still trembling on its stalk, and would tremble for 
a minute until the agitation was spent and it settled down 
again into the immobility of its companions. 

It was a great day for Ulrica, for on that morning she 
had despatched the first hardly earned hundred florins to 
the most urgent of her father’s creditors. It was her first 
triumph over Fate, and everything around her spoke gf 
the same triumph ; the trees bent under the weight of the 
fruit, at the roots of every bush cocks and hens were busily 
pecking, and presently, through the open gate, there came 
the procession of ten cows returning from the meadow to 
the byre under the charge of Barbel, the milkmaid. Ulrica 
gazed at each in turn almost lovingly as they passed. 
There was the speckled Roschen, the sleek Bliimchen, 
dappled in glossy brown and creamy white like a half -ripe 
horse-chestnut, the satin-coated Atlas, there were the other 
variously streaked and spotted creatures, and lastly, there 
was the snow-white Edelweiss, the pride of the establish- 
ment. Ulrica knew each one as intimately, by name and 


THE FIRST HUNDRED FLORINS. 85 

by physiognomy, as though they had been her bosom 
friends. 

The ten moved towards their byre somewhat wearily, 
with heavy feet and sunken heads, for the day had been 
oppressive, and one in a series of many oppressive days. 
It was a week past since the grass on the river-side mead- 
ows had begun to dry up. But to-night the long-looked- 
for rain appeared to be approaching. There was a leaden 
hue about the sunset sky and an ominous stillness in the 
air which spoke of a change at hand. 

Presently an expression of displeasure crossed Ulrica’s 
face, and, laying aside her rake, she left the garden just in 
time to intercept Pater Sepp, who, followed by a bare- 
legged lad laden with a great bunch of bracken fern, had 
been attempting somewhat hastily to gain the door of his 
house unperceived. 

‘ Good-evening, Pater Sepp,’ said Ulrica, as she joined 
him. Then without further preliminary : ‘ What have you 
brought that boy home with you for ? Why is he not at 
school or at work ? ’ 

‘ I brought him home to carry the ferns, my dear child,’ 
answered Pater Sepp, a little guiltily; ‘they were rather 
heavy for me.’ 

‘ Exactly. And you gathered the ferns not because you 
wanted them a bit, but just in order to have an excuse for 
giving him a “ sechser.” Is that not it. Pater Sepp ? ’ 

‘ But I do want the ferns,’ said Pater Sepp, somewhat 
feebly, ‘ the vases on St. Philomena’s altar — ’ 

‘ Have got plenty of flowers in them already, and plenty 
more waiting for them in the garden-beds. Well, well, 
mind at any rate that you don’t give him more than one 
“sechser.” You were not thinking of giving him more 
than one, I hope ? ’ 

Pater Sepp looked almost deprecatingly at Ulrica. ‘ To 
tell the truth, my dear child, I was thinking of giving him 
two ; it is such a very hot afternoon, and the ferns are so 
heavy.’ 

Ulrica almost laughed. Pater Sepp’s ingenuity in the 
invention of such excuses as this was positively inexhaustir 
ble. It was always either too hot or too cold or too windy 


86 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


or too rainy to admit of a normal standard of remuneration 
being adopted. On this occasion Ulrica stood by until 
the fern-bearer was paid and dismissed. ‘ But it will be 
no good/ she said to herself. ‘ They will just wait till I 
am out of the way, and then that lazy urchin, who, of 
course, is lurking just outside the wall, will come back for 
a second “ sechser ” ; I saw the two exchange a glance of 
mutual understanding. Dear, dear, I am beginning to be 
afraid that that old man is quite incorrigible,’ 

‘ The weather is going to break,’ said Pater Sepp, by 
way of a change of subject. 

‘ I hope so ; the grass is all but burnt up for want of 
rain.’ 

■ I am afraid we may have more rain than we want now,’ 
said Pater Sepp, studying the dark corner of the sky with 
a peasant’s quick eye for ‘ weather signs.’ ‘ I don’t like 
those clouds, there’s ice as well as water in them. I have not 
seen them just that shape nor just that colour since ’69.’ 

‘ ’69 ’ was the year of which the date was recorded on 
the little tablet which was let into the wall of the Marien- 
hof, and which Ulrica had noticed the first time she had 
passed that way. But she did not remember it now ; 
those black clouds piled in the west meant to her only 
the long-desired rain. How could she know that they were 
fraught with the destiny of her life ? And when, ere she 
closed her door that evening, she cast one more long, linger- 
ing look over her little kingdom, how could she guess that 
a whole world of grief and of joy, of rapture and of misery, 
lay between this moment and the day on which she would 
again see the prosperous Marienhof thus blooming and 
fruit-laden ? 


CHAPTER IX. 

*THE STORM OF TEN MINUTES.’ 

It was a little after midnight when Ulrica was awakened 
by a short sharp thunder-clap. So quickly was it over that 
she even felt doubtful as to whether the sound had been a 
reality and not rather a piece of a dream. 


‘the storm of ten minutes.’ 


87 

Leaving her bed, she groped her way to the window. 
The clouds of yesterday evening had crept over half the 
sky, they were creeping stealthily towards the moon, which, 
out of a space of transparent blue, still poured its light into 
the valley. It had not rained yet, she could see that by 
the want of sparkle on the moonlit flower-heads in the gar- 
den, and there was no wind, for the leaves of the old pear 
tree, which almost touched the pane, hung motionless. 
Over in the Pfarrhof there was a moving light, — why was 
Pater Sepp not in his bed ? 

A long silence followed upon the thunder-clap ; the un- 
easy bellowing of one of the cows in the byre was the only 
sound audible. ‘It must have been a dream,’ she said, 
and was about to leave the window, when she stood still 
again to listen. A hollow undefinable rumble was drawing 
nearer and nearer. It was the wind coming over the 
mountains. Now it was shaking the pine trees on the hill- 
side, then it had swept into the valley, and was howling 
down the village street, and in one minute more it had 
reached the Marienhof. The trees in the orchard — as im- 
movable the instant before as the painted decorations in a 
theatre — were one by one seized as though by invisible 
hands and convulsed to their very roots. And then the 
clouds rushed over the moon, and the pane before Ulrica’s 
eyes was in one instant blurred with a sheet of water. 

‘ The rain at last,’ said Ulrica ; and hastily throwing a 
shawl around her, she left the room to see to the fasten- 
ings of the other windows in the house. She had not 
made two steps, when she stood still in amazement. There 
was a rattle as of artillery on the roof overhead ; so start- 
ling was the sound, so utterly unlike anything in her ex- 
perience, that it did not immediately occur to her to think 
of hail. And now there followed ten minutes during which 
it seemed that all the evil spirits of hell had been let loose 
and were raging round the house. It was no longer possible 
to distinguish one sound from another. Was that the roar 
of the hurricane, or the thumping of the hailstones, the 
crash of a falling tree, or the roll of the thunder ? Could 
that piercing tone be the cry of an animal in distress, or 
was it only a high note of the blast ? The hissing of the 


88 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


rain, the shivering of the broken glass panes, and the bang- 
ing of doors burst open by the draught, grew and multj- 
plied until there was nothing more but one huge deafening 
din. 

As Ulrica hurried through the row of empty rooms, her 
light was dashed from her hand, and her shawl torn from 
her shoulders. Flashes of blue lightning showed her the 
trees without, staggering before the blast ; hailstones as big 
as walnuts were showering in by the broken windows, and 
hopping over the bare floors. In the last room Barbel was 
on her knees beside a blest candle, which had done service 
in many a thunder-storm before now, but never in such a 
one as this. To judge from her gestures and the move- 
ments of her blanched lips, she was either shrieking or 
praying at the top of her voice, but the storm drowned 
every sound that was not itself. There was no doubt, 
however, in Barbel’s mind, that the end of the world had 
come. 

But the world was to stand for a little while yet. A lull 
as sudden as the first onslaught of the hurricane allowed 
the terrified milkmaid’s voice to become audible in all its 
dissonant agony. The storm was drawing breath for a 
new onslaught, thought Ulrica, and sat down exhausted 
upon a chair, for, owing to its position. Barbel’s window 
had been spared by the hailstones, and the room, therefore, 
appeared by comparison like a haven of refuge. There 
passed several minutes during which Barbel never ceased 
praying, and Ulrica sat and waited with set teeth for the 
next rush of the storm. But the minutes passed and noth- 
ing came. The hail had ceased together with the wind, 
and nothing but the rain was now to be heard thundering 
to the ground. That lull had not been a lull at all, but the 
end of the hurricane. ^ The storm of ten minutes ’ was 
spoken of for long at Glockenau. 

Ulrica did not sleep any more that night, nor, indeed, 
did any one in the village. Daylight was feverishly waited 
for by the terror-stricken peasants, for daylight alone could 
show them the extent of the ravages. And yet, when it 
came, they could form but a very imperfect idea of what 
had befallen them, for so thick was the air with the heavily 


‘the storm of ten minutes.’ 


89 

fallen rain that outlines were blurred and the marks of ruin 
shrouded in veils of damp. Owing to the masses of hail 
which had fallen, the air felt as chill as though it were No- 
vember instead of August. All day long the heavy clouds 
rolled up lazily on the horizon one after the other in never- 
ending succession, and all day long the rain poured down 
straight and steady, ‘ like wet ropes,’ as the saying is. It 
seemed as though that brief storm in the night had been 
the key which, with one sharp turn, had unlocked all the 
flood-gates of heaven. With every hour the river was 
rising, fed with terrific rapidity by the torrents from the 
mountains. Soon broken branches began to go past upon 
its swollen surface, and these were followed presently by 
whole trees uprooted by the hurricane. The more enter- 
prising of the inhabitants of Glockenau, unwilling to let 
this rich store of firewood drift past unchallenged, spent 
the greater part of that day upon the foot-bridge at the 
lower end of the village, their coat-collars pulled up to 
their ears, and their trousers turned up over their boots, 
armed with hooked poles wherewith to fish up the most 
likely-looking branches. For the children, delighted with 
the novelty of this fishing game, this awful day had almost 
the charm of a holiday, and many were the shouts of glee 
over a more than usually glorious prize that was dragged 
dripping on to the bank. The further the day advanced, 
the more exciting did the game become. Thicker and 
thicker was the store of firewood coming down from the 
mountains, whirled past ever more wildly before the eyes 
of the tantalised spectators. By degrees the poles that had 
at first been used at their full length were discarded in 
favour of shorter instruments, and some of the more pru- 
dent left the bridge. It now stood scarcely more than 
four feet above the raging water. 

Night came and brought no pause in the rain. Ulrica, 
lying awake in the Marienhof, listened to the sound for 
hours, the splash upon the roof, the soft trickle on the 
pane, the undefined rustle against the wall, as though a 
host of rats were gnawing their way through the stone. 
Day had already dawned when there broke upon the air 
tlie loud clamour of a bell. It was the alarm-bell which 


90 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


generally acted as fire-signal, but which, on this occasion, 
was heralding the approach of a different sort of danger. 
At the same time the roll of a drum was to be heard in the 
village street. The drum had been pressed by the alarmed 
village authorities into a service very different from its 
usual peaceful mission of accompanying the village crier 
on his Saturday afternoon round, when the lost property of 
the week was loudly proclaimed down the length of the 
Glockenau high-street. 

While Ulrica was hurriedly dressing. Pater Sepp rapped 
at her window. 

‘ I am going to the village,’ he said. ‘ The people are 
all desperate, they are screaming for me — for you and for 
me ; the Pfarrer and the Grafin, that is the cry. If we do 
not go quickly, we shall be cut off.’ 

' What is that noise ? ’ asked Ulrica. ‘ Is it thundering 
again ? ’ 

‘ That is the river ; it will be up to the wall in less than 
half an hour.’ 

Ulrica ran to one of the windows which looked on to the 
road, and a terrific sight met her eyes. In that roaring 
mass of muddy water thick with spars, logs, planks, 
branches, roots, and tree-stems, rolling it up into great 
brown mountains and tumbling down again into gaping 
brown valleys, it was scarcely possible to recognise the 
peaceful water of crystal green with which she had so long 
been familiar. The wooden crucifix on the bank was gone, 
nothing but the tops of the willows which grew along the 
bank were visible. The bridge, by some miracle, was still 
standing, flush with the water, trembling from end to end 
with every wave that broke over it. Even as Ulrica looked, 
a huge tree-root, coloured and twisted like a gigantic coil 
of black and orange snakes, came charging down the river 
and plunged beneath the obstructing bridge. There was 
a slow upheaval of the planks, a pause, the bridge stood for 
one minute longer, then with the report of snapping wood it 
slowly burst asunder and instantly was wrenched to pieces. 

And now the river had it all its own way. It was a mad 
spectacle indeed ; wave after wave rolled past, its ragged 
crest reared for one instant, only to crumble into brown 


THE STORM OF TEN MINUTES.’ 91 

powder and foam. Sometimes a quantity of planks, sucked 
by the current into shapeless, inseparable masses, came 
tearing past ; yards of wooden paling, garden-gates torn 
off by the hinges, dog-kennels and ladders, all these spoke 
of the destruction already wrought in the village. Here 
the remnants c. a roof rode aloft on the crest of a wave, 
and, close behind it, an uncanny mass bulged from the sur- 
face of the water, which, parting for an instant, showed it 
to be the swollen carcass of a horse. Then for two min- 
utes the torrent would become one mass of bobbing com- 
sheaves — somewhere at the upper end of the valley some 
wheat-field had, no doubt, been swept clean. Hen-coops 
and pig-styes pitched madly into each other; fruit trees 
torn out by the roots chased each other round the whirl- 
pools, caught each other by their draggled branches much 
as one drowning man might catch another by the hair, and 
dashed on together in the never-ending rounds of this fren- 
zied dance. The rain was coming down as heavily as ever, 
and already the first wave broke on to the road and sent a 
thin sheet of muddy water lapping up to the very bank 
which supported the wall of the Marienhof. 

‘ If we do not go quickly,’ urged Pater Sepp, ‘ we shall 
not reach the village.’ 

‘ Will the wall hold ? ’ was Ulrica’s thought, as she turned 
to follow him. 

Not to follow him, to stay at home and watch over the 
Marienhof, did not even occur to her mind. She made no 
attempt to hold back Pater Sepp, because she felt instinct- 
ively that it would be useless; all she could do was to 
share the danger with him. The wall was her great hope. 
It is true that the farm lay on the very lowest ground of 
the valley, but the wall had withstood the flood of eleven 
years ago, so why should it not withstand this one f Be- 
sides, if only the rain would cease it was not likely that the 
water would rise beyond the bank. 

But the rain showed no signs of ceasing. Steadily and 
mercilessly it came down all that second day. Ulrica and 
Pater Sepp had not been in the village more than an hour 
when already the street was knee-deep in water and every 
low-lying room was converted into a pond in which tables 


92 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


and chairs floated wofully about. Looking back upon 
that day in after years it always appeared to Ulrica as a 
species of watery nightmare ; the bewildered peasants, 
senseless with terror, the roaring of the river, the monoto- 
nous drip of the rain, they all were part of the nightmare. 
To see miniature torrents pouring from every rain-spout and 
water streaming down every wall soon came to appear the 
natural state of things ; a little more of this and it would 
require some reflection to remember what woodwork looked 
like when it was not soaked, and what was your neighbour’s 
appearance when his clothes were not drenched and the 
drops not trickling from his hat brim. 

By nine o’clock the meadows beyond the river were 
turned into a lake ; by midday the lower end of the village 
had to be abandoned. It was Ulrica who had assumed 
the chief command, and whose directions the terrified peas- 
ants, conscious of having lost their heads, were only too 
thankful to follow. It was to the Grafin they turned even 
more than to the Pfarrer, for Pater Sepp, though he worked 
without sparing himself, worked with his hands more than 
with his head, and consequently was apt to waste as much 
energy over the rescue of a wheelbarrow as over the saving 
of a store of wheat. Already in the early part of the day 
he had spent a precious quarter of an hour and most of his 
strength in tugging at a rope the other end of which he be- 
lieved to be round the neck of an obdurate cow, but which, 
on nearer examination of the shed, proved to be attached 
to a millstone. 

Carried away by the excitement of her responsible posi- 
tion, Ulrica had almost lost sight of the danger which 
threatened herself. It was some time after midday when 
the report suddenly spread that the wall of the Marienhof 
was giving way. 

‘ The cows,’ was Ulrica’s first thought, for they repre- 
sented all her wealth in this world. 

‘ Are they not cut loose ? ’ asked one of the peasants. 

'No, I was sure the wall would hold. Perhaps Barbel 
has cut them loose ;’ but remembering the blest candle on 
the night of the storm, Ulrica did not say this with much 
confidence in Barbel’s presence of mind. 


‘the storm of ten minutes.’ 


93 

It was too late, at any rate, to see to it now, for the re- 
turn to the Marienhof was cut off. 

Towards evening the rain ceased and further danger 
seemed over. The return, however, could not be thought 
of till next morning. 

Another long, long night for Ulrica. Her pulses were 
still throbbing too violently with the excitement of the day 
to let her sleep. Each time she closed her eyes she seemed 
to be seeing that triumphal procession of wrecks carried 
past by the raging river, and in her ears the dismal drip of 
the rain still sounded long after it had ceased to fall. 

Daylight showed the clouds to be breaking up in all di- 
rections. The river had now been going down for more 
than twelve hours, yet Ulrica, hurrying down the village 
street to learn her fate, waded ankle-deep in water. The 
nearer she got to the lower end of the valley, the more ter- 
rible were the signs of ravage around her. Her heart be- 
gan to beat in dull apprehension. The ‘ river-meadows ’ 
were still under water; along the line which had once 
marked the river-bank the willows, all dragged one way by 
the tearing of the water, leant wearily against each other, 
their branches tattered and broken, their stems smothered 
in masses of weeds fantastically twisted around them. The 
tops of the hedges were full of the planks and spars which 
the retreating water had left there, and on the road at 
Ulrica’s feet little fishes lay wriggling and gasping in the 
mud. 

All at once she uttered a cry. At the turn of the road 
she had caught sight of the Marienhof. Of the enclosing 
wall there remained nothing but some formless clumps of 
bricks with wide breaches between, through which the 
water had broken its way. In a few minutes more she was 
standing in one of these breaches — there was no need to 
go round to the gate, and in fact there was no gate to go 
round to, and now the wreck lay open before her. 

Pools of muddy water and mounds of wet bricks — the 
fragments of the wall — covered the ground. The fruit 
trees were thinned to half their number, and many of those 
that still stood were leafless, their bald branches peeled to 
the core by the hail. One fragment of the garden-paling 


94 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


lay at Ulrica’s feet, half buried in the mud ; the rest had, 
no doubt, gone to join the triumphal procession on the 
river. A flattened mass of green pulp, with here and there 
a red or yellow spot faintly showing, marked the place 
where the garden had once been. A heap of wet feathers 
in one corner to which Ulrica made her way proved to be 
a perfect hecatomb of drowned hens, and a few steps fur- 
ther on, the white cow, Edelweiss, lay stark and stiff upon 
her side. 

But it was only when she reached the cow-byre that Ul- 
rica fully grasped the extent of the blow which had fallen 
on her. Three or four of the stalls were empty ; had 
Rdschen and Blumchen and Atlas got loose themselves, or 
had Barbel had time to free them ? It did not matter now, 
and as for the six remaining cows, they had all been drowned 
where they stood. 

The wreck was complete ; what the hail had spared the 
hurricane had taken, and what the hurricane had left stand- 
ing had been washed away by the flood. Dairy and or- 
chard and garden were destroyed ; the ducks alone had 
suffered no harm and rode merrily upon the newly formed 
ponds. And now, as though to let no detail of the ruin 
escape Ulrica’s eyes, the sun burst out of the clouds and 
mockingly lighted up this scene of desolation. 

Ulrica covered her face with her hands. She knew that 
she was ruined. Was there anything more in this world 
that Fate could take from her? Yes, there was one more 
thing. 

She was still standing with her eyes covered to shut out 
the picture before her, when heavy steps were heard splash- 
ing through the slush, the measured steps of men who are 
bearing a burden. Ulrica looked up and saw a small group 
of peasants wending their way between the pools of water 
and the heaps of bricks towards the Pfarrhof. In their midst 
there walked two who carried a chair slung between them, 
and on the chair sat Pater Sepp, his white head sunk on his 
breast and the water dripping from his soaked clothes. 

‘ I am afraid it will turn to inflammation of the lungs,’ 
said the village doctor to Ulrica, when the old priest had 
been laid in his bed. ‘ Men of seventy-eight have no busi- 


"the storm of ten minutes.’ 


95 

ness saving other people’s tables and chairs in floods. 
We’ll pull him through, however.’ 

Ulrica made no reply. From the moment that she had 
felt his burning hand and marked the feverish brilliancy of 
his blue eyes she knew that Pater Sepp was lost to her. 

‘ It was not my fault, my dear,’ he explained to her 
eagerly, ‘ really not my fault ; it was those pigs, you know, 
a whole litter of them, and all that the widow Heller has 
got ; I could not let them be drowned before her eyes.’ 

This was not the moment to give way, Ulrica felt she 
had need of all her strength for the struggle that was com- 
ing. She would save him if human endeavour could save 
him, she vowed to herself. During five weary days she 
fought for his life as though her own depended on it, but 
it was vain care. The old man’s strength sank hour by 
hour, and on the morning of the sixth day, before one ray 
of sunshine had reached the valley, before one little bird 
had twittered in the branches. Pater Sepp was in heaven. 

Two days later Ulrica was returning from the second 
funeral that she had followed in Glockenau. Her courage 
had held her up till this moment, but it seemed as though 
it could carry her no farther. In the wasted garden of the 
Marienhof she sat down upon the trunk of a fallen tree and 
broke into a passion of tears. 

For the first time in her life her spirit seemed broken, for 
the first time she told herself that she was conquered. 

" I can do no more,’ she said to herself between her sobs, 
" I am at the end of my strength.’ 

Once more she stood alone, a beggar and an orphan. 
The work at which she had laboured for a year and a half 
had been undone within three days. Once again the future 
had become dark. What was to become of her? What 
was to become of the Marienhof? Would Pater Sepp’s 
successor suffer her to remain where she was ? And — sup- 
posing the answer to be favourable, where was she to find the 
means to start her work afresh ? Of the ten cows only two 
had escaped the flood, and had been found straying in the 
woods above the farm. The byre would have to be newly 
stocked, the wall rebuilt, the pasture beside the river freed 
from the slime which lay over it in a thick layer, making 
7 


96 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


the grass useless ; all this demanded money, and she had not 
a penny in the world and not a helping hand to grasp. Hold ! 
Was that indeed so ? Had not a hand once been held out 
towards her, and had she not thanklessly pushed it aside ? 

When the idea of appealing to her unknown cousin first 
presented itself to her mind as a possibility, Ulrica put it 
from her angrily. But, unawares to herself, it crept back 
again. The temptation was great, and in her present state 
of discouragement she was, not strong enough to turn from 
it. Had he not claimed a promise from her ? A promise 
which, indeed, she had not given, but which neither had 
she refused. And that help had been frankly offered and 
honestly meant ; she had felt that even then, despite her in- 
dignation. After all, he was her cousin, a near relation of 
her father’s, and, of course, she would pay him back every 
penny of the loan as soon as she had once more gained 
ground beneath her feet. 

For two days these thoughts pursued her. On the even- 
ing of the second day she wrote the following letter : 

‘ Glockenau, August i6th, i88i. 

‘ My dear Cousin : Since I last wrote everything has 
changed for me. Glockenau and my farm have been 
ruined by a flood, the old priest who saved me from starva- 
tion was buried on Saturday. I am very near starvation 
again. Once before you offered me money and I was an- 
gry ; perhaps you will refuse it now that I ask for it. I 
have been told that I may keep on the farm, but no one 
has told me how to restock it without money. I should 
require to buy at least four cows, and these cows will cost 
between fifty and sixty florins apiece. Will you lend me 
three hundred florins, to be repaid in instalments within the 
next two years ? Also tell me what the interest should be ; 
I wish to pay you whatever is the usual interest which you 
would get for your money in England. 

‘Your cousin, 

‘Ulrica Eldringen. 

The letter once despatched, a certain uneasiness took 
possession of Ulrica. It was the first appeal for help she 


‘THE STORM OF TEN MINUTES. 


97 


had ever made in her life, and so foreign to her nature 
was the step she had taken that she actually caught herself 
hoping for a refusal. 

Sir Gilbert’s reply was somewhat long in coming, and 
when it came the envelope did not bear the usual lilac 
stamp, but the postmark of a place in the Bavarian high- 
lands where he had been shooting for some weeks past and 
to which her letter had followed him back from England. 
A banknote for a thousand florins in Austrian money fell 
out of the envelope ; nothing but a few hasty lines accom- 
panied it. ‘ Why not buy a round dozen cows when you 
are about it ? ’ was scrawled upon the paper. ‘ You could 
not start the farm again comfortably with four. As for the 
interest, you can’t have been serious, surely ? Anyway, I 
have no time to discuss it now, for the trap is at the door 
and we are off to the Chamois.’ 

Ulrica picked up the banknote which had slipped to the 
floor, and laying it into a fresh envelope, sat down and 
wrote to Sir Gilbert as follows : 

‘ I am not going to accuse you again of wishing to insult 
me, but all the same you have made a mistake. You have 
not fulfilled the request I put to you ; I asked you to lend 
me three hundred florins, not to make me a present of a 
thousand, for, of course, I understand the meaning of your 
not having time to discuss the question of interest. Here 
is the money back again ; perhaps this will convince you 
that I am serious. Don’t send me any more, I wouldn’t 
take it. I think I had lost my senses for a little when I 
asked for your help, but I have recovered now and feel 
strong enough again to fight the world by myself.’ 


When Ulrica had seen the envelope containing the bank- 
note safe into the post-box, she felt as though a stone had 
dropped from her heart. She was not conscious of any 
anger against Sir Gilbert, rather she was thankful to him 
for the excuse he had given her for returning the money. 
She could breathe again ; her self-respect was restored. 

A week passed, and no further sign came from that place 


9$ A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

in the Bavarian highlands. Sir Gilbert had apparently ac- 
cepted her decision. 

Then at the end of that week all at once a stranger 
appeared quite unexpectedly in Glockenau. 


CHAPTER X. 

Ulrica’s cousin. 

It was now the beginning of September, and though the 
memory of the flood was not many weeks old, already the 
worst marks of the ravage had disappeared. Crops, in- 
deed, were ruined, cattle drowned, and orchards thinned, 
but, though poverty had entered into many a house where 
comfort had once reigned, yet, outwardly, Glockenau had 
resumed its everyday physiognomy. Glass is not expensive 
and palings cost next to nothing when stranded wood is lit- 
tering the ground in all directions, and if the cucumbers 
and the tomatoes which filled the gardens a month ago 
have all been washed away, and if many a room has pre- 
served relics of the flood in the shape of damp-stained 
walls and warped floors, the new palings and the new win- 
dows do not betray much of what lies behind them. The 
river itself has long since recovered from its brief madness, 
and, spanned by a new foot-bridge, beside which a new 
crucifix is just now receiving its last coat of paint, flows 
once more between its rightful banks, as tame and harmless 
looking as though it knew of no such things as uprooted 
trees and drowned cows. 

One evening early in September Ulrica was on her way 
to the village shop, when she heard a well-known lumber- 
ing sound behind her and was overtaken by the S^e//- 
wagen, whose daily appearance was the one link between 
Glockenau and the outer world. Glancing towards it as it 
passed her, she was surprised to see a pair of shoulders 
clad in what appeared to be a grey travelling-suit, the back 
of a head together with a fraction of a ‘ deer-stalker ’ just 


99 


ULRICA^S COUSIN. 

visible through the dingy window-pane. Grey travelling- 
suits and ‘ deer-stalkers ' were not articles of attire gener- 
ally affected by the inhabitants of Glockenau, and more- 
over this particular travelling-suit, cursory as had been the 
glimpse which Ulrica had of it, bore upon it the unmistak- 
able stamp of an absolutely first-class article. It may have 
lain in the turn of the collar, or the line of the shoulder- 
seam, or the grain of the texture ; in any case, it was some- 
thing impalpable and indefinable, which admitted of no 
mental comparison between this particular grey coat and 
other grey coats worn by the Leopolds and Augusts who 
were used to paying their Sunday visits to the valley, and 
which therefore bore in upon Ulrica’s mind the instant 
conviction that this was a visitor of another sort. 

She had accomplished her errand and was returning 
homewards when quick steps sounded behind her. In the 
interval she had forgotten the Stellwagen and its occupant, 
but, hearing that step, she immediately by some instinct 
connected it with the enigmatical grey coat, for the one 
belonged as little to Glockenau as did the other. She was 
saying this to herself, when a tall, broad-shouldered man 
walked past her, swinging a cane in one hand and looking 
attentively from side to side, as though in search of some- 
thing. Presently he accosted a small boy who was divert- 
ing himself with a complicated game in which mud and 
horse-chestnuts formed the chief elements. The small boy 
looked puzzled, but ended by pointing down the road ; it 
almost seemed to Ulrica as though he were pointing at the 
Marienhof. By this time she was again abreast of the 
stranger, who, having thanked his small informant, was 
walking on again. He glanced at her across the road, 
then raised his hat and remarked in wofully broken German 
that it was a fine evening. Ulrica having agreed to this 
remark, they walked on for some minutes more in silence 
and with the road between them. She was utterly at a loss 
how to account for his presence here, unless, indeed, he 
were one ofi the artists who occasionally, at rare intervals, 
found their way into the valley in search of pine-tree 
effects. She had just come to this conclusion when the 
stranger spoke again. 


lOO A QUEEN OF CUr!)S AND CREAM. 

‘ It seems that we are going the same way,’ he remarked. 
‘ May I not carry that parcel for you ? ’ and he crossed the 
road towards her. 

‘ Thank you. I prefer carrying it myself.’ She glanced 
up at him in some surprise, for stray travellers do not, as a 
rule, address young women in peasant dress in such a 
strictly courteous tone. She now perceived that he was a 
man no longer quite young, but of a commanding presence 
and well-cut features; his short, light brown beard con- 
trasted sharply with his dark eyebrows. The eyes which 
met Ulrica’s w'ere of a deep hazel tint. 

‘ I wonder how it comes that I can understand you so 
much better than any one else I have spoken to since I 
got to this place ; and yet, by your dress, you belong to 
Glockenau.’ 

‘Yes, I belong to Glockenau ; that is to say, I do not 
belong to any other place.’ 

They had now reached the wooden enclosure which was 
doing temporary duty in place of the demolished wall of 
the Marienhof. 

‘ Good-evening,’ said Ulrica, with a short inclination of 
her head, as she turned into the narrow lane. 

‘ Not quite yet,’ was the reply ; ‘ it seems that our paths are 
not to part quite so soon,’ and he turned into the lane beside 
her. Arrived at the gate she was on the point of once more 
wishing him good-evening, when the supposed artist, push- 
ing open the gate, remarked that he was going in there. 

‘ So am I,’ said Ulrica, in increasing wonder. ‘ He 
must be going to the Pfarrhof,’ she said to herself ; ‘ some- 
thing about the new Pfarrer, I suppose.’ 

But he was not going to the Pfarrhof ; having cast a 
rapid glance about him, he turned without hesitation towards 
the older house. 

‘ That is the Marienhof, is it not ? ’ he asked. 

‘ Yes, that is the Marienhof.’ 

‘ You seem to be going there as well as I.’ 

‘As well as you? Are you going to the Marienhof? 
What on earth can you have got to do there ? ’ 

‘ Very likely the same that you are about to do ; to pay 
a visit.’ 


Ulrica’s cousin. ioi 

‘ I am not paying a visit, I live here.’ 

‘You live here? Then you must hve with Countess 
Eldringen ? Do you know her ? Are you — Good Lord ! ’ 
he broke out in English, ‘ what an extraordinary duffer I 
am! You are Ulrica, of course, my cousin Ulrica ; it was 
the dress that checkmated me, you never told me about the 
dress. Cousin Ulrica,’ and he held out his hand with a 
smile that broke like sunshine over his face. 

Ulrica did not immediately take the hand. 

‘ I don’t quite understand,’ she stammered, likewise 
speaking English. ‘ You can’t surely be — ’ 

‘ My name is Nevyll,’ said the stronger, laughing out- 
right. ‘Why do you stare at me as though I were my 
ghost instead of myself ? ’ 

‘ Because it seems impossible ; you never told me 
either — ’ 

‘ What did I never tell you ? ’ 

‘ That you were — I mean I always thought you were an 
elderly gentleman.’ 

Sir Gilbert put back his head against the doorpost and 
broke into a laugh which had in it so infectious a ring that 
Ulrica was surprised to find h&rself laughing too. But in 
the middle of it he broke off with something that was 
almost a sigh. 

‘ So I am,’ he said, in a different tone, ‘ a much more 
elderly gentleman than you can imagine. Cousin Ulrica.’ 

Ulrica had by this time recovered from her first surprise. 

‘ So you really, really are my cousin Gilbert ? ^ she broke 
out joyfully. ‘ I cannot tell you how glad I am to have a 
cousin ; it is almost as good as having a brother. Come 
into the hojise ; you will take supper with me, will you 
not ? I can only give you roast potatoes, but you wouldn’t 
get anything much better at the inn.’ 

‘ There is nothing I dote upon like roast potatoes,’ said 
Sir Gilbert, as he followed her into the big, square room, 
which was entered through the house door without any in- 
termediate passage. This room, in which Ulrica spent her 
time when she was not at work outside, and into which she 
had gathered all the small store of furniture which belonged 
to the Marienhof, occupied the whole depth of the house, 


102 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

and had two small deep-set windows looking on to the 
road. 

‘ Is this where you live ? ’ said Sir Gilbert, standing still 
and looking round in surprise at the whitewashed walls, the 
rafters of the ceiling, the rude tables and chairs, the big, 
old-fashioned green stove with the broad wooden bench 
running round it. The only article in the room which 
could be counted as an ornament was a small photograph 
of Emil Eldringen, framed in black and hanging on the 
space of wall between the two windows. 

‘Yes, this is where I live,’ said Ulrica, as she rapidly 
dusted the bench by the stove ; ‘ this is my Siiibe^ and this 
bench is the place of honour — at any rate, it is the most 
comfortable seat I have to offer you, though it is nothing 
now to what it is on a winter evening. Please sit down 
here and tell me how you came to be at Glockenau, and 
in the meantime I will light the fire.’ 

‘ Surely you are not thinking of lighting it yourself ! ’ ex- 
claimed Sir Gilbert, in horror-stricken tones. ‘ Let me call 
somebody, please.’ 

‘ There isn’t anybody to call,’ said Ulrica placidly ; ‘ who 
do you suppose would light the fire, if I didn’t do it? ’ 

‘ Some servant, I suppose, whoever does it usually.’ 

‘ But it is I who do it usually. You speak as though I 
had a whole staff at my heels ; surely you forget that I 
have got no money.’ 

‘To be sure ; it’s awfully stupid of me, I really beg your 
pardon ; but still — I don’t quite understand — ’ and Sir 
Gilbert, evidently somewhat perplexed, sat down upon the 
chair she had pushed towards him, and followed Ulrica 
thoughtfully with his eyes as, with colour somewhat height- 
ened by the excitement of the unexpected* event, she 
moved about the room busy with her preparations. She 
had lit a small lamp and placed it on the table. Its 
rays fell full upon Sir Gilbert, revealing his features more 
clearly than had done the failing light of the September 
evening. 

There was no doubt that in his early youth he must have 
possessed good looks very much above the average ; even 
now, in his forty -second year, he was a man whom few 


Ulrica’s cousin. 


103 


people passed by without a second look. It was not alone 
his tall stature and the grand breadth of his shoulders that 
arrested the eye, it was more still his noble head and the 
peculiar depth of his glance. What he had lost in youthful 
charm he had gained in expression. There was a history 
in his face, a history not indeed to be read but to be 
guessed at in the deep lines that marked his broad brow, 
in the thoughtful gaze of his hazel eyes and the premature 
silver that gleamed through the rich chestnut-brown of his 
hair. Something of weariness, too, something of dissatis- 
faction lay upon his face when in repose, but vanished like 
magic when he spoke. 

‘ You have not yet answered my question,’ said Ulrica, 
as she approached the big stove with an armful of wood. 

‘ About how I came to be here ? That is very quickly 
told. To make a clean breast of it at once : I came to 
look at you.’ 

' To look at me! ’ 

‘.Exactly. I have been worried more than you can 
imagine during this year past by my vain endeavour to im- 
agine what a young woman could be like who not only 
turns herself into a farmer at a moment’s notice, but also 
gets her farm to pay. I am not certain that I should have 
gathered together enough energy for the step — for, as you 
have yet to learn, I am the most indolent of men — if that 
last letter of yours had not finished me. It found me, as 
you know, on the Continent ; I have not been on the Con- 
tinent for years, but Count Sickern of the Bavarian Lega- 
tion asked me over for the chamois season, and I couldn’t 

resist. It was at T that I got your letter, and the 

logic by which you supported your refusal of that banknote 
tickled my fancy so immensely and raised my curiosity to 
so unbearable a pitch, that I actually tore myself away from 
the chamois. I have never been snubbed so frequently by 
any one person before, and I felt that I could not return to 
England without at least setting eyes upon the dispenser of 
these snubs.’ 

‘ In other words, you came to look at me as a sort of 
natural curiosity ? ’ 

‘ Well, I am afraid that is about it.’ 


104 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

‘ And am I like what you expected ? ’ 

Ulrica, as she put her question in the most matter-of- 
fact of tones, had risen from her knees beside the stove. 
She looked at her visitor with perfect seriousness across 
the room, shaking some stray wood-shavings from her 
apron. 

There are many women whose beauty fails to strike at 
first sight, but rather grows upon the spectator by degrees, 
who are ever appearing in new lights, and whose charms, 
being dependent on circumstances of mood or surround- 
ings, rather insinuate themselves upon the senses, than take 
them captive. There are others, again, who reveal them- 
selves immediately and entirely, about whose claim to 
beauty there can be no difference of opinion. Ulrica be- 
longed to this second order. There was nothing insinuat- 
ing about her beauty, nothing complex ; rather, there was 
a sort of severe simplicity which could not fail to meet with 
instant recognition. Her clear white skin, the pure colour 
in her cheek, her well-cut grey eyes, the moulding of her 
perfect figure, which no dress, however clumsy, could hope 
to disguise— all these were things which the first glance 
fully revealed, and which, once seen, were not easily for- 
gotten. 

‘ No,’ said Sir Gilbert, after an instant’s pause, ‘you are 
not like what I expected.’ 

‘ It seems, therefore, that we have had quite wrong ideas 
about each other,’ said Ulrica, beginning to take down 
some dishes from the shelf ; ‘ that is rather funny. Do you 
know, I used to imagine that you must be gouty.’ 

Sir Gilbert broke once more into his infectious laugh. 
‘ Gouty. In the name of wonder,’ he began — ‘ Good 

gracious ! ’ he interrupted himself, springing up from his 
chair, ‘ this is more than I can stand. Don’t say that you 
are going to peel those potatoes yourself ! ’ 

‘ Certainly I am. I told you that I have got no serv- 
ants.’ 

‘ But surely you must have somebody, a cook at least ; 
everybody has got a cook.’ 

‘ I have not. I used to have a girl for milking the cows, 
but I had to discharge her after the flood because I couldn’t 


Ulrica’s cousin. 


105 

pay her wages. As I haven’t any cows now to milk, it 
isn’t of much consequence.’ 

‘Great God! But are you absolutely alone? You 
surely don’t mean to say that you — ’ in an awe-struck 
tone — ‘ that you black your own boots ? ’ 

‘ Yes. That is to say, when I can afford the blacking.’ 

‘ This is awful. Do you like blacking boots ? ’ 

‘ Beggars can’t be choosers,’ said Ulrica shortly. ‘ But, 
after all, what is there so very surprising about it ? Why 
do you look so amazed ? Didn’t you know all along that 
I had only just enough to eat ? ’ 

‘ I suppose I did know it, in a sort of way,’ said Sir Gil- 
bert, with a look of almost comical perplexity, ‘ but, some- 
how, it didn’t look as bad in the letters as it does now. 
The idea of your lighting the fire yourself, and peeling po- 
tatoes and things — and young ladies are so particular 
about their hands. They declare that everything spoils 
them.’ 

Ulrica laid down the potato she was peeling. ‘ Look ! 
Is there much to spoil here, do you think ? ’ 

The hands which she held towards him across the table 
were of a faultless shape, with long taper fingers and small 
round wrists, but they bore the marks of toil, not only in 
their sun-browned complexion, but also in the roughness of 
the surface and the hardness of the palms. Something 
about those toil-worn hands seemed to awe Sir Gilbert ; he 
was silent for fully a minute before he returned to the 
charge. 

‘ But look here, though you haven’t any other servant 
you really should have a cook. I never heard of any one 
not having a cook.’ 

‘ You will get to hear a good many strange things if you 
pursue my acquaintance. What do you imagine that a 
cook’s wages would be ? ’ 

‘ Well, that’s more than I can say. I am not up in those 
things. Let me see, is it a hundred or a hundred and fifty 
that Maillac gets ? ’ 

‘ Who is Maillac ? ’ 

‘ He’s the head of the kitchen department, a Frenchman. 
Makes the most wonderful ragoulsl 


Io6 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

Ulrica burst into an almost convulsive laugh. 

‘ A hundred pounds! ’ she gasped. ‘ You pay your cook 
a hundred pounds! Double of what the profit of the 
whole Marienhof would be in a good year! And you 
don’t even know whether it isn’t fifty pounds more ! That 
is neither here nor there. Oh, don’t you see how ridiculous 
it is? How can we talk of these things together? How 
can you understand my situation or I yours ? I told you 
that beggars couldn’t be choosers; well, you are the 
chooser and I am the beggar, and as long as it remains so 
we shall always be at cross-purposes.’ 

Sir Gilbert looked at her very seriously. 

‘ Why should it remain so. Cousin Ulrica ? Why will 
you insist upon being a beggar ? If you would only relent 
so far as to let me — ’ 

‘ Let us drop that subject, please,’ said Ulrica, colouring 
violently, as she swept the potato-parings into her apron. 

‘ But that letter,’ began Sir Gilbert, almost diffidently. 

‘ That letter was written in a moment of mental aberra- 
tion. I had slept badly for a great many nights and I sup- 
pose that had an unfaV'ourable effect upon the balance of 
my mind. I am quite recovered now, thank Heaven.’ 

‘ And what are you going to do ? ’ 

‘ To begin again. In fact, I have begun again. The 
last heap of bricks was cleared away yesterday.’ 

‘ Y ou are certainly the most determined young woman I 
have ever known, and also the most suspicious. You seem 
positively to be on the lookout for insult. It’s a pity, 
Cousin Ulrica ; suspicion doesn’t suit you.’ 

Ulrica did not immediately answer. ‘ Perhaps you are 
right,’ she said after a minute, ‘ perhaps I am suspicious, 
but it can’t be helped. It is circumstances that have made 
me so. Let us talk of something else, please.’ 

And so they did ; they talked of many things while the 
potatoes were roasting and while they were being eaten. 
That first evening spent in the company of her hitherto 
unknown English cousin remained a distinct landmark in 
Ulrica’s life. To be met on terms of equality by a man of 
education and breeding, not to be either looked down upon 
or made love to, this was, in her experience, unprecedented. 


THE TWO MILLSTONES. 


107 


It filled her with wonder and with gratitude. The rustic 
clock over the door ticked on unnoticed while Ulrica sat 
and talked to Sir Gilbert of her serio-comic struggles with 
Pater Sepp, while she described to him the various incidents 
of the flood and told him of her life during the past year. 
It seemed to Ulrica that she must have known her cousin 
Gilbert for years. There had been no breaking of ice in 
this their first acquaintance, because on Sir Gilbert’s side 
there had been no ice to break, and because the genial 
warmth of his manner had instantly melted the crust of 
Ulrica’s usually rather rigid reserve. 

When ten o’clock struck upon the church clock along- 
side, she started to her feet aghast. 

‘ Is it possible ? And I have to be up at four to-mor- 
row! Let me light you to the gate.’ 

She lighted him to the gate and held the lamp there 
while he walked down the dark lane towards the road. At 
the corner he looked round and waved his hand. 

‘ Good-night, Cousin Ulrica.’ 

^ Good-night, Cousin Gilbert.’ 


CHAPTER XI. 

THE TWO MILLSTONES. 

What was it that had happened? The question was 
stirring in Ulrica’s mind before she was well awake next 
morning. ‘ I know now,’ she said to herself, as she rubbed 
the sleep out of her eyes. ‘ I have got a cousin, a real 
cousin all to myself. I am no longer quite alone.’ 

The surprise of discovering that this cousin, instead of 
being old and gouty, was a man in the most vigorous health 
and scarcely past the prime of life, had soon vanished. 
Now that she came to think of it she could not imagine 
what had given rise to that first impression — it had taken 
root in some chance remark, and the reserve which Sir Gil- 


Io8 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

bert had always observed with regard to his own concerns 
and to his person had left that first erroneous idea undis- 
turbed. 

‘ Going for a walk ? ’ asked Sir Gilbert when, in the 
course of the afternoon, he presented himself at the gate of 
the Marienhof and found Ulrica stepping forth with a 
basket on her arm. 

‘ A walk ? Oh no, I never take walks, I have plenty of 
exercise without that. I am going to the mill ; the miller’s 
wife has just been here to ask me for some of the same 
medicine that I gave to the shoemaker’s baby last week. 
Her baby has got something quite different the matter with 
it, but she argues that, since the medicine cured one baby, 
it must cure another. I wonder whether all peasants are 
as pig-headed as my Glockenauers ! I am going to the 
mill myself to see about it.’ 

‘ Do you go in for doctoring ? ’ 

‘ I go in for anything that comes in my way, and doctor- 
ing is one of the things that comes in my way oftenest.’ 

‘May I go with you to the mill ? 

‘ Yes, certainly.’ 

It was a crisp autumn day, and the sun was lavishly 
gilding the roofs of Glockenau as the two walked through 
the village. 

Ulrica had told Sir Gilbert that it would take them 
barely twenty minutes to reach the mill, but in reality it 
^ took them an hour, and this not because they walked slowly 
or lingered by the way, but owing to various impediments 
to their progress in the shape of peasants with grievances 
who promptly seized this favourable opportunity of waylay- 
ing the Grafin. Would she give her opinion as to the posi- 
tion of the new hen-house to be erected in the place of the 
one washed away by the flood ? pleaded the Distelbauer. 
Could she recommend anything against mildewed walls, his 
neighbour wanted to know f And scarcely had the hen- 
house been satisfactorily settled and the wall mercilessly 
condemned than Ulrica, starting once more on her way, 
was arrested by a small boy sent racing after her to ask 
whether the Grafin would step in to speak to his mother on 
a matter of urgency and importance. 


THE TWO MILLSTONES. 


109 

‘ Do you know what the matter of urgency and im- 
portance was ! ’ said Ulrica when at the end of five minutes 
she rejoined Sir Gilbert.. ‘ It was an old petticoat, about 
which I was to decide whether it would cut up into trousers 
for the very messenger sent after me. There was not much 
more than a square inch of the fabric not in holes ; not 
quite enough for a neckerchief, let alone trousers, and yet 
I know she would have taken all day to come to a resolu- 
tion about it ; she would not have felt justified in throwing 
it on the dust-heap without my sanction.’ 

‘ Really ? ’ said Sir Gilbert, somewhat absently. He had 
been very talkative at first, but the further they advanced 
up the village and the more the interruptions were multi- 
plied the more silent and thoughtful did he become. By 
the time they reached the shadow of the first pine tree his 
answers were reduced almost to monosyllables. 

Her errand at the mill being accomplished, Ulrica was 
about to turn homeward, when Sir Gilbert interposed : 

‘ Home already ? On such a day as this ? I want to 
see a little more of these pine trees since I am about it, and 
surely you won’t leave me to wander about by myself.’ 

‘ Very well,’ said Ulrica, ‘ I will take you a little further 
on ; it is a great waste of time, I am afraid, for I ought to 
be at work ; but, after all, you are my guest.’ 

They walked on, following a grass-grown cart-track 
which wound among the trees. 

‘ Tell me,’ began Sir Gilbert abruptly, after a silence, 
‘ what makes you worry over the concerns of these great 
babies down in the village 1 It can’t possibly interest you 
to know whether the new hen-house is to be placed three 
steps to the right or three steps to the left of the pigsty, 
and surely you have got business enough of your own on 
hand without wasting your time over an old woman’s petti- 
coat.’ 

‘ Possibly I have ; but you forget that, for one thing, 
each of these people is a sort of legacy left to me by Pater 
Sepp ; he put them under my care.’ 

‘ Is that your only reason ? ’ 

‘ Well, no ; I believe that what my poor father used to 
call my “ talent for tyranny ” has got a good deal to do 


I lO 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


with it. My father always declared that I was never happy 
unless I had somebody to order about, and so I suppose it 
gratifies me to order about these peasants. And then — ’ 

‘ Then what ? ’ 

‘ Well, you see, nothing tries my patience so much as to 
see things go wrong without at least trying to put them 
right. I couldn’t possibly stand by and watch so many 
good opportunities wasted and so much comfort lost simply 
because people don’t know how to use their brains.’ 

‘ It must give you a lot of anxiety.’ 

‘ Do you know, I think it would give me more anxiety if 
I didn’t do it. It seems to me that if one has been given 
brains and strength and health, one has a sort of responsi- 
bility put upon one.’ 

Sir Gilbert raised his head sharply and looked at Ulrica 
with an almost startled expression. 

‘You see,’ continued Ulrica, ‘it can’t possibly be meant 
that one is to keep all that for one’s self. It would be so 
abominably selfish not to try at least to leave the bit of the 
world one lives on a little wiser or better or more comfort- 
able than one found it. Look at my Glockenauers, for in- 
stance: in one respect they are exactly like their own 
cattle; each steps just where the one before him has 
stepped ; with a hundred other and better ways staring him 
in the face, each will put his foot on the same spot where 
the other has put his, and would go on in the same way 
forever if somebody whose ideas soar a little higher than 
turnips and ploughshares were not occasionally thrown in 
contact with them.’ 

‘ I see, and you are the person with the ideas above the 
ploughshares. What a delicious bit of green.’ 

. They had just stepped out between the pine trees on to 
an open spot — the same that Ulrica had visited once be- 
fore, on the morning after her father’s funeral, when she 
had been in search of a quiet nook in which to lay the 
plans for her future. From that day to this she had not 
again seen the old mill-wheel standing silent between the 
moss-capped rocks, nor heard the tinkhng of that narrow 
thread of water which was all that remained of the mill- 
stream of long ago. In its autumnal aspect the space 


THE TWO MILLSTONES. 


I 


around the ruins of the old mill was no less inviting a re- 
treat than it had been upon that April morning, only that 
the green velvet mantles of the rocks were beginning to 
show signs of wear, and the bramble-branches which once 
floated so lightly and so carelessly over the grave of the 
dead mill had now begun to fall into heavy arches under 
the weight of their swelling fruit, and had grown too busy 
and aged to flirt any more with the breeze. Over across 
the plain, framed by red pine stems and arched over with 
a heavy black-green branch, the great mountains bounded 
the horizon, clear-cut and glittering, with their bright lights 
of crystal whiteness and their deep shadows of icy blue. 

‘ It’s like a piece out of a German fairy tale,’ said Sir 
Gilbert, looking round him. ‘ I shall not be a bit surprised 
if that pine tree begins to give us its biography presently ; 
and that mill-wheel there must have a lot of interesting 
reminiscences, if only one could set it agoing. And here 
are two ready-made seats, too. I vote that we sit down.’ 

The clear September sunshine, sliding its shafts from be- 
tween the pine branches, was fantastically decorating the 
bramble-bushes, throwing spots upon some leaves, laying 
rims on others, streaking and speckling and tipping with 
gold whatever it could lay hands on. There was just 
enough breeze stirring to sway the big bunches of yellow 
ragwort that grew within the shade of the trees, and which 
seemed to catch fire every time they waved forward into 
the light, only to be roughly extinguished whenever they 
sank back into the shadow. 

Ulrica and Sir Gilbert had been sitting for some min- 
utes, when, on turning towards her cousin, she was surprised 
to find his eyes fixed upon her face with a scrutinising ex- 
pression. 

‘ That is rather an uncomfortable theory of yours,’ he 
remarked abruptly, beginning to switch off some grass-heads 
with his cane. 

‘ What theory f ’ asked Ulrica in surprise. 

‘That about the responsibility of people with brains 
towards people with none. Where did you get the idea 
from I ’ 

‘ I am sure I can’t say. Unless,’ she added after a 
8 


I 12 


A QUEEIC OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


pause, ‘unless it was from Pater Sepp. Not that poor, 
dear Pater Sepp had any superfluous brains ; but he showed 
me what sympathy can do, sheer sympathy without brains 
— from that to the idea that sympathy combined with 
brains could do more still is not a very far step.’ 

‘ You speak only of sympathy and of brains ; does money 
play no part in your philanthropical ideas ? ’ 

‘ Money ! Oh, if I had sympathy and brains and money, 
then there is no saying what I couldn’t do with such a 
combination.’ 

Again Sir Gilbert raised his head quickly and gave her 
that startled look. 

‘ And what would you think of a person who possessed all 
the requisites, money included, and who yet left his bit of 
the world neither wiser nor better nor more comfortable 
than it was when he found it ? ’ 

‘ I should pity him,’ said Ulrica simply, ‘ for I do not 
think that such a person could feel happy.’ 

‘ And you — you are happy at this sort of work ? ’ 

‘Yes, as things go, I think I may say I am happy — cer- 
tainly I have never been so happy as during this past 
year. I have found my place in the world. Until I 
drifted into this harbour I was nobody. Out there in the 
big world I was an unfortunate half-and-half creature, 
neither fish nor flesh, neither black nor white, I belonged 
to nothing. A relation of my father’s is in the ministry, a 
relation of my mother’s is a hair-dresser; one of them 
makes laws and the other makes false chignons — there 
were absurdities on all sides. Here these things don’t 
count ; I am simply an isolated fact.’ 

‘ Exactly. But I should have thought that you were 
rather too conspicuous an isolated fact to be left unmo- 
lested.’ 

‘ I used to think so too,’ said Ulrica dispassionately. 
‘ During the first days I spent in this valley my looks were 
very much in my way, but the answer to that is again : 
Pater Sepp. If Pater Sepp had not taken me by the hand 
I should never have found my footing ; once the shadow 
of his protection fell upon me I was safe, and even the 
memory of that protection is enough to place me above all 


THE TWO MILLSTONES. 


II3 

petty annoyancfes. But,’ Ulrica interrupted herself, ‘it 
strikes me that our talk is a very one-sided affair ; we are 
talking of nothing but myself and my life ; you have told 
me nothing about your life. Cousin Gilbert, of your occu- 
pations, your interests. I seem to know so little about 
you — even in your letters you were always asking questions 
and never answering any. How is that ? ’ 

Sir Gilbert laughed rather gloomily. 

‘ What should I tell you of ? What good would it be if 
I were to expatiate to you on the doubtful delights of the 
London season, or to draw pictures of the different ways 
we have of wasting our time in .country houses ? What 
should I talk to you of 1 Of the beauties presented at the 
last drawing-room ? Of Lady So-and-So’s diamonds — or 
Lord Thingumbob’s debts ? ’ 

‘ But surely you must talk of other things besides peo- 
ples’ diamonds and debts ? ’ 

‘ Oh yes, we occasionally talk of making and unmaking 
governments, and we discuss poetry and criticise the last 
cartoon in Punch. I have known myself to become quite 
eloquent over either lawn-tennis or Euclid, according to 
whether I took a bread-and-butter Miss or a Blue-Stock- 
ing into dinner.’ 

‘ Never mind the conversations, tell me about your oc- 
cupations, the places you go to.’ 

‘ No good either, it would all be Greek to you. Have 
you ever heard of a place called Hurhngham ? Or of an- 
other called Lord’s ? ’ 

‘No.’ 

‘All the better for you. Take my advice and don’t 
bother about them. They get wonderfully stale, I assure 
you.’ 

‘ Do they 1 Then why do you go in for them ? Surely 
you can’t be forced to go to all those places you mention 
if you dislike it so ? ’ 

‘ But I never said I disliked it,’ said Sir Gilbert, almost 
irritably, and switching away at the grass-heads more vig- 
orously than ever. ‘ I suppose I should dislike it very 
much more if I were cut off from all these things for good 
and all. There’s a tyrant in the world called Habit, with 


1 14 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

a smiling face and velvet clutches; neith'er Necessity nor 
Ambition are as hard taskmasters as he. And even though 
one may occasionally be visited by a glimmer of the gen- 
eral insanity of the whole concern — hang it!’ Sir Gilbert 
interrupted himself with a short and bitter laugh, ‘ it’s as 
good a way as any other to keep one from thinking. And 
after all, why should a man who has the chance of enjoy- 
ing his life not also have the right to do so ? ’ 

There was a distinct point of interrogation in his voice, 
and Ulrica, raising her eyes, met a questioning look. Sir 
Gilbert seemed to be expecting a ratification of the senti- 
ment just announced. Instead of answering at once, she 
examined his face rather curiously for a minute. 

‘ Do you not agree with me ? ’ he asked, almost defiantly. 

‘Certainly; if he does enjoy it. You speak as if you 
did not.’ 

Her steady gaze seemed to disquiet him, but he did not 
reply. 

‘ And yet you have everything : riches, position, health — ’ 

‘ That is not everything.’ 

‘ It is more than most people have.’ 

‘ Look here. Cousin Ulrica,’ broke in Sir Gilbert, giving 
himself a shake and speaking in his usual good-humoured 
tone, from which all bitterness had now vanished, ‘ you are 
not going to lure me on in this way. Twill disarrange 
the artistic balance of this idyllic spot by talking of Gilbert 
Nevyll. I can’t tell you how dead-sick I occasionally get 
of Gilbert Nevyll and all that concerns him. Supposing 
he has his grievances, rightful or wrongful, never mind 
which, let us leave him and them “ out there,” as you call 
it. As long as I breathe the air of this enchanted valley 
of yours, let me try and forget that I am Gilbert Nevyll. 
It’s so seldom I have a chance of talking of anything half 
so invigorating as peasants and cows and pine trees ; let’s 
stick to them, by all means.’ 

‘ And how long do you intend to breathe the air of this 
valley ? ’ 

‘ When shall I be off again, you mean ? Where is your 
sense of hospitality. Cousin Ulrica? In point of fact, I 
had not originally contemplated a stay of more than 


THE TWO MILLSTONES. 


II5 

twenty-four hours, but then also originally I had not 
counted upon finding you quite so obdurate. Seriously, you 
cannot imagine that after having seen you, my cousin’s 
daughter, leading the life of a peasant, and with nothing 
but the memory of an old priest to protect you, I could 
quietly go home again and leave you to milk your cows 
undisturbed? We must find some way of altering all this, 
but I foresee that it will take rather more than twenty-four 
hours.’ 

‘If it is with the object of persuading me to accept 
your help that you are staying on here,’ said Ulrica, stiff- 
ening on the instant, ‘ you may as well leave Glockenau 
by the Stellwagen this evening.’ 

‘ Thank you, I shall not. You seem to have the whole 
valley pretty much at your orders, but I happen to be a 
free British subject. Besides, I don’t see why you alone 
should have the exclusive privilege of obstinacy. Remem- 
ber that we have some of the same blood in our veins. 
Do you know that, with the exception of Ernest, you and 
the M inarts are the nearest relations I have in the world ? ’ 

‘ Who is Ernest ? ’ 

‘ Ernest is poor George’s son, my nephew and heir. He 
is to be married next month.’ 

‘ And George is the second boy on the photograph, your 
younger brother. I did not know that he was dead.’ 

‘ He died of inflammation of the lungs three years ago ; 
George was always rather shaky about the chest, and I 
am sorry to say that Ernest takes after him. I was rather 
anxious about him when I left England; he had had a 
nasty cough hanging about him for months, nothing really 
serious, but a great nuisance at this moment. He was 
afraid of having to postpone the wedding. I wish it was 
well over ; I rather shudder at the prospect of the tenants’ 
dinner and the dance in the barn and all the rest of it. 
But here we are talking of the outer world again ; this will 
never do. How did I come to drag Ernest in here ? Oh, 
it was the relationship. Yes, Cousin Ulrica, I have every 
hope that when we come to know each other a little better 
you will allow me to make use of the privileges of your 
father’s cousin.’ 


Il6 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

It was difficult to find a reply that would fit the occasion 
exactly, so that Ulrica, determined though she was that it 
should be ‘No,’ had yet to content herself with not saying 
‘ Yes.’ 


CHAPTER XII. 

LEARNING TO PLAY. 

The Stellwagen which left Glockenau that evening did 
not bear back Sir Gilbert Nevyll into the outer world, and 
even on the next day, and on the day after that again, 
that ancient yellow vehicle lumbered out of Glockenau 
empty, or at the most containing some unmistakably rustic 
specimen of humanity. 

The natural excitement which the sudden appearance 
of her English cousin had brought to Ulrica had long since 
calmed down, giving way to a certain strange sensation of 
restfulness, such as she had never hitherto known. Firmly 
resolved though she was not to grasp the helping hand 
stretched towards her, yet it afforded her a curiously illog- 
ical satisfaction to tell herself that the helping hand was 
there, close by. She had never, even in her earliest child- 
hood, known what it was to lean on any support. No one 
could have leant on so soft a substance as Fanny Eldrin- 
gen, nee Badl, while as for her father, he had leant on her. 
And to this new moral support she had a certain right 
which no one could take from her, ‘ for he is my cousin,’ 
she said to herself exultingly. Her loneliness was at an 
end ; when the two walked through the village together 
her heart beat proudly ; to each woman who nodded to 
her out of her doorway, with her husband or her brother 
or her father or her children beside her, Ulrica felt inclined 
to say : ‘ Look at me, I also have someone who belongs 
to me ; I also, like you, know what it is to have rela- 
tions in the world ; I am no longer the solitary outcast of 
society.’ 


LEARNING TO PLAY. 


II7 

To the Glockenauers, the tall Englishman with the 
Ollendorfian German and the universally courteous manner 
had within a few days become a familiar figure. The gen- 
eral opinion in the village was that since he seemed in 
some way to belong to the Grafin he must necessarily be 
a Graf, and the openness of his purse supported this idea. 
The children soon found out that to lie in wait for the 
Graf at some convenient corner was an agreeable as well 
as a profitable occupation, and the landlady of the ‘ Golden 
Sun ’ began to ask herself to which saint’s image she 
should burn a blessed candle in thanksgiving for the unex- 
pected piece of luck which had befallen her house. 

That impression which Ulrica had gathered from Sir 
Gilbert’s letters, the impression that he was not a happy 
man, that there lay some shadow on his life which dark- 
ened for him the glory of his riches and his position, was 
deepened by her intercourse with him. A man to whose 
temperament gaiety was more akin than gravity, whom 
nature had intended to be exceptionally happy, but whom 
circumstances had saddened and somewhat embittered — ^ 
this was what he appeared to be. The struggle between 
these two extremes was continually to be read in his face ; 
in the genial smile that would be so quickly chased by a 
shadow, conjured up, it would seem, by some sudden recol- 
lection ; in the laugh, almost boyish in its brightness, which 
was so apt to end in a sigh ; in the humourous twinkle which 
would shine in his eyes even while words of bitter cynicism 
were dropping from his lips. If he was a sufferer from 
‘ Weltschmerz ’ — and in his cynical moments he would mock- 
ingly range himself in that category — he at least differed 
in this one point from the mass of those unprofitable 
sufferers, in that he seemed anxious not to inflict his griev- 
ance upon unoffending fellow-creatures. When in the 
course of a conversation he seemed in danger of drifting 
into too low-spirited a view of life in general, it was fre- 
quently to be observed that he would both physically and 
mentally give himself a shake, as though to clear away the 
cobwebs of despondency and force himself to a brighter 
view of things. At such moments there would be a touch 
of recklessness about his gaiety which convinced Ulrica, 


Il8 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

even more certainly than the gloomy fits had done, that 
her cousin Gilbert was for some reason or other to be 
pitied. 

Meanwhile the object which had brought Sir Gilbert to 
this pine-scented retreat showed no symptoms of ap- 
proaching fulfilment. By however many and various ways 
he approached the subject of Ulrica’s future and the 
manner in which it was to be bettered, he found each way 
mercilessly barred. Why should she not give up Glock- 
enau and come to live in England ? he had suggested on 
one occasion. He was sure he could find her some occu- 
pation. 

‘And I am sure you would not,’ said Ulrica, with a 
superior smile. ‘ You know about as much of occupations 
and the earning of money generally as I know of the Lon- 
don season. No, thank you; I may occasionally be hun- 
gry here in Glockenau, but, at least, I am independent ; 
how do I know what I should be in England ? ’ 

Another time Sir Gilbert had unfolded a proposition 
over the maturing of which he had spent the best half of a 
sleepless night. 

‘ I have hit upon a splendid idea,’ he had greeted Ulrica 
with in the morning ; ‘ if only the new priest proves man- 
ageable it will work splendidly. I shall take the lease of 
the farm and the cows and all that, and you will manage it 
for me. It will be the same arrangement as in the time of 
the old priest, only that we must start the thing this time 
on rather a larger scale, it would be ever so much more 
profitable. There must be more cows and of course, 
therefore, more people to look after them; and some of 
them might look after you as well — I mean that there 
might be one to peel the potatoes and another to black the 
boots.’ 

‘ And one to brush my hair and one to announce my 
visitors,’ completed Ulrica, with a laugh. ‘ What put this 
idea into your head ? ’ and she looked at him scrutinisingly. 

‘ Well, you see, I have been looking out for a new in- 
vestment lately,’ said Sir Gilbert, somewhat shamefacedly, 
‘ and it struck me that this would be a splendid way of — ’ 

‘ Of making a provision for me under the mask of a 


LEARNING TO PLAY. 


9 


profitable laying-out of your money? No, Cousin Gilbert, 
you are a great deal too transparent to deceive me. You 
don’t care two straws either for the investment or the 
profit,, you have more money already than you know what to 
do with. / will fiot take your alms, under whatever name 
you may give them.’ 

‘And I will not stand by and look on while you are 
working yourself to death by attempting to accomplish 
what it would take a couple of kitchen drudges and half 
a dozen day-labourers to accomplish comfortably.’ 

It was on the tip of Ulrica’s tongue to tell him that 
there was no need for him to look on any longer at that 
distasteful spectacle, since the Stellwagen left Glockeoau 
every evening at six ; but for some reason or other she kept 
the idea to herself. Perhaps she was not prepared so 
quickly to give up the new acquisition she had made in the 
shape of a cousin ; at any rate, she contented herself with 
shrugging her shoulders and going on with the hoeing of 
one of the resuscitated garden-beds with which she was 
busied at the moment. 

She had heard much the same sentiment expressed by 
poor Franzl at the inn, yet the words sounded different 
coming from Gilbert Nevyll’s lips. His horror, no doubt, 
was deeper than Franzl’s horror had been. Never before 
had he been called upon to watch the hand-to-hand fight 
with starvation from so close a point. He had, indeed, 
known , that poverty existed in the world, but hitherto his 
knowledge of it had been more theoretical than practical ; 
it was something too distant and dim to be thoroughly 
comprehended, something that lay such poles asunder from 
what he personally knew of life, that he had serious diffi- 
culties in realising its exact nature. Now for the first time 
he was studying it close. 

It had come to be a distinct though tacit struggle 
between the cousins, he determined to help, she equally 
determined not to be helped, and in this way there had 
passed a whole week, and the Stellwagen had not yet borne 
him from the valley, and the landlady of the ‘ Golden Sun ’ 
still burnt candles before the images of her patron saint. 

The restoration of the Marienhof, such primitive and 


120 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


partial restoration as Ulrica could dare to undertake, was 
gradually progressing. 

‘ Ah, if you could have seen it as it was ! ’ she said, as 
she looked around at the devastated ground, now indeed 
cleared of bricks and blown-down trees, yet bearing only a 
melancholy resemblance to the prosperous Marienhof of 
two months ago. 

‘ Why should it not be again as it was ? ’ Sir Gilbert re- 
plied on this occasion. 

‘ I wonder when the new priest will be appointed ? ’ said 
Ulrica, with prompt evasion, recognising the approach of 
the dangerous subject. 

Jt was one afternoon at the end of Sir Gilbert’s first 
week in the valley, while they were sitting on the bench 
beside the door, a new bench, for the old one had been 
washed away by the flood, that these remarks were made. 
Sir Gilbert was smoking a Havana cigar, Ulrica was 
darning a duster. When a few minutes before she had 
stepped out of the house with the torn duster in her hand, 
Sir Gilbert had stared in bewilderment at the enigmatical 
rag. ^ ^ 

‘ What is it ? ’ he inquired, eying the linen square with 
a mixture of astonishment and disgust. 

‘ A duster. You look as if you had never seen a duster.’ 

In point of fact he was not sure that he ever had ; he 
knew only that there were such things, that there must be 
such things, from the spotless purity of the mahogany at 
Morton Hall, 

‘ What can be the fun of working at such a hideous rag ? ’ 
he observed after a minute, during which he had been 
watching the diminishing of the hole in the duster with a 
look of deep dissatisfaction. 

‘ I don’t do it for fun.’ 

‘ Why do you do it at all? No, don’t answer me, don’t 
tell me that if you didn’t mend your own dusters they 
would have to remain unmended ; it’s all perfectly true, 
mercilessly true, I know it ; the logic of it is unanswerable ; 
but in Heaven’s name, do let us throw logic to the winds 
for once ; put away that detestable piece of linen and let 
me see you sitting with your hands in your lap, doing 


LEARNING TO PLAY. 


I2I 


nothing, wasting your time comfortably like other people 
— only for once, Cousin Ulrica!’ 

He spoke so vehemently that she looked up in surprise. 
She saw that his face was troubled in a way she had never 
before observed. 

‘ But I am not tired, why should I take a rest ? ’ 

‘ Lay it down, Ulrica, I beg of you to lay it down.’ It 
sounded more like a command than an entreaty, and 
Ulrica in her astonishment mechanically obeyed. 

‘ Thank you,’ he said, more quietly, having stood for a 
minute looking at her. ‘ I cannot tell you how much good 
it does me to see you for once with idle hands. Why, 
even a day-laboarer’s life is not all work, even he has his 
hours of play.’ 

Ulrica had put down the duster on the bench beside 
her. She had not yet recovered from her astonishment at 
her cousin, and more still at herself, for she could not re- 
member ever before having done a thing simply because 
she had been ordered to. She pulled her thimble off her 
finger and tried it upon each of her fingers in turn, dropped 
it to the ground and picked it up again, clasped and 
unclasped her hands in a restless, undecided manner, tore 
off a vine leaf from the wall beside her and pricked a pat- 
tern on it with her needle ; finally she threw away the vine 
leaf and turned to Sir Gilbert. 

‘ It is no use,’ she said, with a laugh that was almost 
comical in its helplessness. ‘ I cannot sit with my hands 
idle ; I must be at work, I have never learnt how to play.’ 

‘ You will learn. Promise me that you will try, that you 
will begin to try while I am here ? ’ 

‘ While you are here, if you will have it, yes ; but after 
you are gone — ’ 

Ulrica stopped short for an instant, somewhat dismayed 
at herself. The question as to what the valley would be 
like after her cousin was gone had suddenly flashed into 
her mind. Would the loneliness come back again ? She 
distinctly foresaw that the loneliness would be all the lone- 
lier for the interruption that had been. 

‘ After you are gone I shall have to work all the harder.’ 
Ulrica finished her phrase somewhat hurriedly. 


122 ‘A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

' There’s a good deal of unmixed selfishness in the mat- 
ter,’ Sir Gilbert was saying. ‘ To see you forever in motion 
oppresses me with a sense of my own utter uselessness. 
It’s a sensation that I have to suffer under a good deal as 
it is. I give you my word that I have days in which I 
feel ashamed of looking my butler or my gardener in the 
face ; they at least fulfil a distinct object. I don’t sup- 
pose either of them is ever exercised in his mind as to the 
question of whether life is worth living. The one lays the 
dinner-table and the other looks after his vineries and 
peach-houses — but I f What do I do “? I don’t even eat 
the peaches, because I don’t happen to care for peaches. 
And where’s the remedy ? I can’t turn myself into a but- 
ler or a gardener, and if I did what would be the object 
gained? To begin with, nobody would believe I was 
sane ; I should find my way into a straight- jacket without 
fail.’ 

‘ And how very badly the dinner-table would be laid,’ 
remarked Ulrica, ‘and what a terrible mess you would 
make of the peach-houses.’ 

‘ And then,’ said Sir Gilbert, making a face, ‘ I can’t 
help fancying that the chairs in the servants’ hall must be 
uncomfortable ; and the under-gardeners would be sure to 
have all sorts of unpleasant habits, such as smoking cheap 
tobacco, which is a thing I positively cannot stand ; and 
then I am not absolutely convinced that they all possess 
pocket-handkerchiefs. No, I am afraid I wouldn’t do 
for either situation. Sometimes I have thought that it 
wouldn’t be a bad plan to run away from my money ; you 
must admit, at least, that the idea has the merit of origi- 
nality — people often run away from their creditors or their 
wives, but not generally from their money. I should take 
the first ship to Australia with perhaps five pounds in my 
pocket, and then just make a hit out for it and see whether 
my arms are not as strong and my head as tough as that 
of the run of my fellow-creatures. But no,’ Sir Gilbert 
shook his head, ‘ that would be no good either ; the money 
would be there, even though I had run away from it ; the 
idea of it alone would paralyse me. I should be haunted 
by the nonsensical uselessness of the thing. The very first 


LEARNING TO PLAY. 


23 


time I had to do without a salt-spoon or put on a pair of 
ready-made boots I know that I should infallibly telegraph 
home for my passage money.’ 

‘ I don’t understand you,’ said Ulrica ; ‘ you are not 
quite serious, of course, but I don’t think either that you 
are quite joking.’ 

‘ Upon my word,’ continued Sir Gilbert, unheeding, ‘ the 
only radical remedy I can think of would be to turn all I 
have into banknotes, make the banknotes up into neat 
packets with a stone in each packet, and then drop them 
quietly over the side of London bridge. The ships would 
be burnt then, and no mistake.’ 

‘ Surely,’ said Ulrica gravely, ‘ you might find a better 
employment for your money than merely to startle the 
fishes with it. Think, for instance, how much a single one 
of those packets could do for Glockenau ! ’ 

‘ In your hands, you mean, not in mine. I wouldn’t 
have a notion how to set about it. I can’t speak the lan- 
guage, for one thing.’ 

‘ Well, then, not in Glockenau. Poverty and sickness 
are surely weeds that grow everywhere.’ 

‘ They grow very plentifully in Dark Street,’ said Sir 
Gilbert, deliberately and somewhat grimly. 

‘ Dark Street I What is that f ’ 

‘ It is some houses which belong to me somewhere in 
London, and they are all crammed full of poor people, I 
believe.’ 

‘You believe? You do not know?’ 

‘Oh, if it comes to that, I suppose I do know. They 
are regular fever-courts, the sort of holes that the pluckiest 
bobbies are shy of.’ 

‘ Do you mean that you have never even been there ? ’ 

‘Been there? No. That would be rather too sensa- 
tional, and there’s nothing I detest like sensationalism. 
I’m not quite sure that I would have the face to give a 
cabman the address. I just do as everybody does, I em- 
ploy agents.’ 

‘ And can you trust the agents ? ’ 

‘ Well, I don’t suppose they pocket more than about half 
the money that goes through their hands, and there is 


124 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


always the other half to fall back upon, you know. I am 
being continually badgered about doors and windows and 
grates and staircases, so what else can I do but send an 
agent to Dark Street ? ’ 

‘ You might do a good many other things, I think. You 
might pull down the houses, for instance, and build cleaner 
and better houses in their place.’ 

‘ No good ; I’ve thought of all that. What’s the use of 
making one street decent when you can’t even reach it 
except through the most disreputable highways! What 
respectable folk would set themselves down right in the i 
middle of that hot-bed of vice ! ’ 

‘ I don’t know,’ said Ulrica reflectively, ‘ but I can’t 
help fancying that the respectability would spread. I 
have often noticed that every signal improvement which I 
undertook on the Marienhof was immediately copied in 
the village. No one had ever thought of having a door- 
mat until I invested in one for the saving of my floor, and 
the Distelbauer had been quite satisfied to let his hens 
have the run of the house until he found out that mine were 
never allowed to cross the threshold. Who knows what 
the other streets might not do for themselves if your street 
set the example.’ 

‘ Do you think so ! That idea has never occurred to 
me.’ 

‘ And even if the old houses remain,’ continued Ulrica, 
‘could they not be improved by better management! 
Why can’t ypu get people to do it for you ! ’ 

‘ I have tried that too, but it is no good. When I was 
still young and foolish enough to cherish ideals, I had a 
scheme for making Dark Street respectable ; it was one of 
my grand failures ; I have had several. The people into 
whose hands I put the matter used it as a money specula- 
tion. They thought I was a philanthropical fool whom 
rational folk had a right to squeeze ; and upon my word,’ 
said Sir Gilbert, with a sudden reckless laugh, ‘ I don’t 
see that they were wrong. Is not every one a fool who 
worries over the inevitable ! As long as the world stands 
there will be misery and drunkenness and thievishness in 
plenty ; what business is it of mine ? Why should I feel 


LEARNING TO PLAY. 


25 


responsible for the people who happen to pay me rent ? 
They have their parsons and their priests to preach to 
them, let them listen to them. Why should I enjoy my 
slice of roast pheasant one whit the less at dinner because 
some dozen old women in Dark Street go hungry to bed ? 
It is Fate that is to blame, not I. I did not choose my lot, 
it was chosen for me. All the better for me, all the worse 
for those who have drawn the short end ; it is they who 
are in the wrong and I in the right. Let them starve if 
they are hungry, let them freeze if they are cold, let them 
go to the gallows if they have been so badly brought up 
that they don’t know right from wrong. It is not my 
business. Life is too short to be poisoned by such fine- 
drawn scruples — how do I know* how much longer I shall 
live ? Why should I not enjoy every hour I have ? They 
were right, those who labelled me a fool, yes, they were 
quite right. To enjoy, to enjoy and once more to enjoy, 
it is the only true philosophy of life.’ 

He had risen from the bench while he spoke, and stood 
before Ulrica with a flush upon his face. She had never 
seen him like this before, and looked at him in astonish- 
ment; there were moments in which she did not know 
what to make of her cousin Gilbert. 

"You do not mean that,’ she said after a pause, during 
which he had stood staring moodily out over the plain and 
towards the sunset sky. At the sound of her voice he 
turned. The excitement had died out of his face. 

‘ God help me, no, I don’t mean it,’ he said, in a differ- 
ent tone ; ‘ I have tried often enough to persuade myself 
that I do. I shall try again, I know I shall, when I am 
away from this valley, back among the old surroundings, 
and perhaps I shall succeed then, when you are not there 
to contradict me,’ he ended, with a rather uncertain smile. 

" Have you no one to contradict you dt home f ’ 

" No one. People with so much money as I have are 
never contradicted. I wonder whether anything could 
have been made of me if I had ? He bent down suddenly 
and took her hand. ‘ Ulrica,’ he said hurriedly, " why are 
you not my sister ? ’ 

‘Your sister?’ repeated Ulrica, slowly drawing away 


126 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM, 

her hand, ‘Yes, to be sure, why am I not your sister!’ 
and she laughed without exactly knowing why. The idea 
of being Sir Gilbert Nevyll’s sister struck her as almost 
ludicrously incongruous, A faint chill had come over her 
spirit, a chill which she would not acknowledge and which 
she would not have known how to explain. Was it not 
only last week that she herself had claimed Sir Gilbert as 
a brother! 

‘You might have helped me, Ulrica, You would have 
taught me how to work, and I would have taught you 
how to play,‘ 

‘ Which reminds me that I have been playing too long,’ 
said Ulrica, rising from the bench, ‘ It is nearly supper- 
time,’ and she disappeared into the house. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

THE landlady’s BENCHES. 

‘ Is it permitted!’ 

Ulrica turned round with a start at sound of these words 
spoken in an inquiring tone. 

In the open doorway, with a basket on her arm and a 
cotton umbrella in her hand, stood the landlady of the 
‘ Golden Sun.’ 

‘You are busy, perhaps,’ suggested the landlady. 

‘Yes — no, oh no, I am not busy at all,’ stammered 
Ulrica, almost guiltily, hastily flinging aside some small 
object she had been holding in her hand, and advancing 
towards her visitof. 

In point of fact she had been busy, but not in the usual 
way. She had not been either sweeping or scrubbing or 
cooking ; the object she had thrown aside was neither a 
duster nor a soup-ladle, it was a faded red ribbon which 
she had found at the bottom of her box, and the article 
which had engaged her attention when the landlady en- 


THE LANDLADY’S BENCHES. 


127 


tered had been — her mirror. Her black silk handkerchief 
lay on the table, leaving uncovered the wealth of her shin- 
ing brown hair. She put up her hand uneasily, conscious 
of the old woman’s gaze, and provoked with herself for her 
own childishness. What had come over her to be wasting 
her time in this fashion instead of looking after the kitchen 
fire, which should have been lit an hour ago ? 

‘ Have you anything to say to nie f ’ she inquired, some- 
what curtly. 

‘ It suits you much better that way,’ remarked the land- 
lady, eying Ulrica shaiply. ‘No one knows how much 
hair you have if you hide it beneath the handkerchief. 
Ah, and a ribbon ! ’ as her quick eye detected the strip of 
red on the table ; ‘ that must look well among your plaits. 
Hm, hm, yes, that tallies.’ 

‘ If you have anything to say I wish you would say 
it quickly. I have not got time to be standing here 
talking.’ 

. ‘But you have got time to be putting ribbons in your 
hair ? Yes, that tallies exactly. Oh, you needn’t be afraid, 
I'won’t keep you long. It is a remark, or perhaps I should 
say a request, I have to make. I thought I should step in 
now, since I was passing this way.’ 

The landlady advanced some steps further into the room 
and looked cautiously around her. ‘ It was to ask you 
whether you couldn’t get the matter to last till at least the 
end of the month ? ’ 

‘ What matter ? ’ asked Ulrica, staring. 

‘ The Graf. You see it isn’t often that the ‘ Golden 
Sun ’ has such a chance as that ; the best bedroom occu- 
pied and two eggs to. breakfast every day, and butter and 
white bread ; why, these ten days have brought enough to 
do up the bar-room with a complete set of new tables, and 
I have calculated that if he stops for only eight days more 
I shall be able to get new benches to match.’ 

‘But what do you want me to do?’ asked Ulrica, be- 
ginning to laugh. ‘ I am sure I don’t grudge you your 
benches, but how am I to procure them for you ? ’ 

‘Just by holding back a little, by not letting him have 
his way just yet.’ 

0 


128 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

‘ Who ! Whose way ? What are you talking about ? ’ 

‘ Holy Saint Barbara! Why is it that all young women 
nowadays have got to be spoken to so plainly before they 
understand a thing? Whom am I talking about? Oh, 
the holy innocence ! Why, of your lover, to be sure ! ’ 
Ulrica stood for a minute quite still, regarding her visitor 
almost blankly. Then all at once the blood rushed into 
her cheeks. 

‘ I have no lover ! ’ she said vehemently. She had ad- 
vanced a step towards the landlady, and her hands closed 
as though she was going to strike her. 

‘ No offence, no offence at all meant,’ said the old woman 
quickly, retreating a little nearer to the door, for she was a 
small woman, and Ulrica, with her flaming eyes and her 
clenched hands, was a formidable figure. ‘ I did not in- 
tend any harm ; I have no doubt that it is all straight and 
honourable, and that he intends to make you his wife. I 
do not grudge you your good luck, though, by rights, I 
ought to hate you, for it is your doing that my Franzl weit.t 
back to the soldiers and that Mirzl has got married to that 
goggle-eyed Michl. But I don’t believe you meant it, oh 
no ; you have seen hard times enough, young though you 
be ; and no doubt you will suit him better than you would 
have suited my Franzl ; he will have his puddings cooked 
properly, at any rate ; oh, I know what you are worth ! 
All I should like to ask of you would be just to hold back 
a little. After all, though I did have to give you such 
short notice, I did you more than one good turn when you 
first came to the village, so you need not grudge paying 
me a good turn back. It is only eight days that I stipulate 
for, so just hold back a little. Now that ribbon, for in- 
stance, I am not quite satisfied about that ribbon ; men are 
such touch-and-go creatures, a trifle like that might hurry 
on matters too fast ; as long as he is not sure of you^ I am 
sure of him, don’t you see ? While, when once the matter 
is settled, how do I know that he will not be carrying you 
away to I don’t know where ? ’ 

Ulrica was standing rigid beside the table, her head held 
high, her lips curved in a scornful smile. 

‘ You are completely mistaken,’ she said, as the landlady 


THE LANDLADY’S BENCHES. 


129 


paused to draw breath. ‘This gentleman has not come 
here either to make love to me or to marry me. He came 
because he thought he could help me. He is my cousin.’ 
The words were pronounced with an accent which was cal- 
culated to crush the landlady, but they entirely missed their 
effect. She broke into a shrill laugh. 

‘Your cousin! Holy Saint Barbara, as if that were an 
obstacle! Is not the Apfelbauer cousin to his wife, and is 
not my own husband first cousin to me ? He has come 
here to help you! Oh, Holy Saint Barbara! And he 
stays here, I suppose, because the air is so good, and the 
grass so green, not because your lips are red and your neck 
white — a fine gentleman like that, who might be dining off 
silver plates every day, no doubt. Oh, you are the one to 
teach me how to know men! As if they were not ail 
alike, whether they walk behind the plough or ride in a 
coach! I am an old woman and I have seen much, you 
can believe me. If the Graf has not made love to you 
yet, it will not be long in coming. A young man and a 
young woman passing their days together — ^not that he is 
so over-young either, and not that I ever thought you 
nearly so good-looking as Mirzl, but still you are young 
and he is not old. It is the way of all things, he cannot 
escape. It must happen just as a stone that falls into the 
water must go to the bottom.’ 

‘ Leave me this instant, I will not listen to one word 
more! ’ cried Ulrica, stamping with her foot on the ground. 
‘ You have no right to speak in this way, I do not believe a 
word you say ; leave me at once ! ’ 

The landlady beat an instant retreat towards the door, 
awed by the imperiousness of the tone, but before retiring 
finally she could not resist putting in her head once more 
and whispering : 

‘ When the time does come, remember that I was a good 
mistress to you, and do not forget about the ben — ’ 

The word was cut short in the middle, for Ulrica had 
made another threatening step forwards, and the landlady’s 
petticoats whisked round the comer. 

The interview had not lasted over five minutes, but it 
had been long enough to destroy Ulrica’s peace. Her 


130 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

heart was hot with indignation. How was it that officious 
interference must forever be poisoning the simplest and 
purest pleasures of life? These last days had been so 
happy, so unlike anything that had ever been before, she 
had felt so free and yet so safe under the protection of her 
cousin — why must this detestable woman come here to 
startle her with her odious insinuations ? How was it that 
no vulgar mind could ever be got to grasp the real mean- 
ing of disinterested friendship ? But she was wrong ; that 
woman was quite wrong. ‘ He has not made love to me,’ 
said Ulrica between her teeth, ‘ he is not thinking of such 
a thing. It was only three days ago that he called me his 
sister.’ And she bit her lip and uttered a quick exclama- 
tion. She had spilled upon her hand some drops of the 
hot soup she was stirring. It seemed to Ulrica as though 
a rough hand had torn aside a curtain which had hung be- 
fore her eyes veiling something vague and disquieting, 
something at which she had not yet gained courage to 
look. 

Gradually, as the first heat of her indignation cooled 
down, one phrase seemed to stand out clear among all the 
flood of words that had streamed from the landlady’s lips. 
The woman was in the wrong, clearly in the wrong — as 
yet, but how about the future ? What was that that she 
had said ? ‘He cannot escape ; it must happen, just as a 
stone that is thrown into the water must go to the bottom.’ 
The words were continually in her ears, they followed her 
wherever she went. 

‘ She has spoilt everything,’ said Ulrica. She told her- 
self that all her pleasure in her cousin Gilbert’s society was 
gone forever, and it was some days before she began to 
discover that this was not true, that the landlady’s visit had 
not in reality spoilt anything, that everything was as it had 
been before. 

And yet not just as it had been. There was a differ- 
ence, it lay she knew not where. She had been happy be- 
fore this in those walks and those talks in which the interest 
of her life was at present centred ; she was no less happy 
now, but it was a happiness into which a thrill of excite- 
ment had entered unawares, a deeper if more troubled de- 


THE LANDLADY’S BENCHES. I31 

light. She did not stop to analyse its cause, she was con- 
tent to enjoy each day as it came. 

And how full these days were, how like each other in 
their even flow, yet how different in their innumerable 
small details. There were the hours spent in the dairy, 
when Gilbert lounged against the doorpost or sat down on 
an overturned milkpail and watched Ulrica moving about 
among the red earthenware dishes, skimming the milk or 
measuring out the cream. There were the walks in the 
forest, the visits to the peasant huts, on which Sir Gilbert 
now always accompanied his cousin. Then there were the 
rainy afternoons when it was not possible to put a foot out 
of the Stube, and the early autumn evenings when a fire 
crackled in the big green stove and the Ofenba7ik became 
by common consent the seat of honour. Among her father’s 
possessions Ulrica had found an English translation of 
Schiller, which still bore on its title page the name of his 
mother, Edith Nevyll, and which by some miracle had 
survived all Emil Eldringen’s wanderings. She had not 
opened it for years, but now the shabby red volume was 
unearthed, and she would sit for hours listening to ‘ Wal- 
lenstein ’ or ‘ Maria Stuart,’ while from time to time Sir 
Gilbert would lay the open book upon his knee and the 
subject would be discussed, gravely or gaily, hotly or 
coolly, just as the mood of reader or listener brought it 
about. 

In the morning she looked for his coming with a long- 
ing that grew ever greater. She no longer spoke of a 
waste of time when he suggested a walk in the forest ; her 
work even stood neglected. She was enjoying the first 
holiday she had ever taken in her life, and it was strange 
to observe how this sudden relaxation of an effort which 
had been almost constant showed its influence on her out- 
ward appearance. There had always been a touch of 
hardness about her beauty, a something of asperity, the 
result of the defensive attitude which circumstances had 
forced her to assume. It was her womanhood which was 
her greatest danger and the greatest obstacle to her suc- 
cess in life, therefore she had not dared to let herself be 
quite a woman. ‘ She is a man,’ the Glockenauers had 


132 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

often said of her, wonderingly, when she had given some 
new proof of moral determination or physical courage. 
They did not say so now ; they felt, without being able to 
put into words, the change which had come over the 
Grafin. It was now only that her beauty reached its 
height, as it was now only that she rejoiced in its posses- 
sion. 

‘ I am glad that I am beautiful,’ she would say, as she 
smiled at herself in the little dim mirror in its clumsy frame. 
" I am glad that I am young.’ Sometimes she would look 
at her hands and wonder whether anything could make 
them perfectly white again, like the hands of the young 
ladies who were ^ so particular ’ about them, as her cousin 
Gilbert had said. Unconsciously, and almost unobserved 
by herself, she knotted her black silk handkerchief more 
loosely, allowing the waves of her magnificent hair to be 
visible. Her beauty was no longer to be hidden as a thing 
she was ashamed of, it had broken its bonds at last. 

There were moments when she would be frightened at 
herself, when she indistinctly recognised upon how uncer- 
tain a basis this new happiness was built. But these were 
only brief awakenings. 

The landlady’s words would return to her memory — 
since it must happen " as surely as a stone which is thrown 
into the water must drop to the bottom,’ of what use was 
it to struggle against Fate? And she would sink back 
again into the dream which was slowly absorbing her life. 

Three weeks had thus passed and Sir Gilbert was still in 
the valley. He seemed to have forgotten that there was 
an outer world. Was he, too, dreaming a dream ? It was 
hard to say. The landlady herself, though she studied his 
face night and morning and watched him when he started 
for the Marienhof and when he returned from there, felt 
her shrewd head puzzled. She had seen many courtships 
in her day, but as for this one — if indeed it were one — she 
could not take upon herself to say how it would end. He 
did not to her mind look like a lover who foresees success, 
but neither did he look like one who is preparing himself 
for failure. Was he a lover at all? she asked herself oc- 
casionally. Some of the symptoms indeed would have 


AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. 


133 


tallied fairly well ; there were occasional signs of restless- 
ness ; twice in the course of these three weeks he had be- 
gun to pack his portmanteau, and twice the portmanteau 
had been unpacked again and things had gone, on as be- 
fore. The landlady was sure of her benches for the bar- 
room now, and was beginning to dream of a new set of 
beer-glasses. There was no saying how long this state of 
things might not last, for the Graf seemed like a man who 
is walking in .his sleep, drifting unconsciously onwards with- 
out any active exercise of will. 

But it was written in the stars that the landlady was not 
to have her beer-glasses. It lies in the nature of things to 
be forever progressing towards collapse. Left to them- 
selves, matters might have trailed on thus for who knows 
how many weeks more ; but in this world of chances and 
accidents matters never are left to themselves. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. 

One day in the very end of September, Ulrica and her 
cousin were standing together deep in the forest. They 
had been walking for some time, neither of them distinctly 
aware of how long, and now the blaze of sunset which was 
lighting up the western sky warned them that it was time 
to be thinking of the homeward way. It had been a day 
of alternate sunshine and showers, of smiles and tears, and 
even now, in this sunset hour, the smiling and the tearful 
mood were still struggling for the upper hand. It was 
hard to say which would gain the victory, whether the 
night would be fair or wet. 

Ulrica looked round her with a start ; the part of the 
forest they had reached was strange to her. During these 
last weeks she had got to know the woods close to Glocke- 
nau pretty thoroughly, but they had never wandered so far 


134 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

as this. They had left home early in the afternoon, lured 
out by one of the deceptive intervals of sunshine, and had 
been walking ever since, taking shelter under some dense 
pine trees from the light showers which occasionally drifted 
across the sky, and so deep in a variety of discussions 
which followed one another that neither marked the path 
they were following. 

‘ I want you to make me a promise,’ Ulrica had said, 
soon after they had entered the shadow of the pine trees. 

‘Welir 

‘ I want you to promise that the first thing you do when 
next you are in London shall be to visit Dark Street.’ 

‘ It will be no good.’ 

‘ Perhaps not, but I want you to promise all the same. 
I believe it will make you happier even only to try.’ 

‘ Why should you care whether I am happy or not ? ’ he 
asked, almost harshly. 

She glanced up at him in surprise. Once or twice be- 
fore she had heard him speak in this tone without being 
able to recognise any cause for the seeming irritation. 

‘ Do you promise ? ’ was all she said. 

‘Yes,’ said Sir Gilbert, and then immediately began to 
talk of other things. 

And in this way they had unawares got deeper and 
deeper into the forest, until the level rays of the setting 
sun shooting straight into Ulrica’s eyes called her back to 
the actual surroundings of the moment. 

Where were they? Ulrica recognised nothing around 
her. One pine tree indeed is very like another, and shut 
in as they now were by the black giants of the forest, it 
was possible that Glockenau lay close at hand, if only they 
could gain an open spot from whence to take their bear- 
ings. There to the right the trees appeared to be lighten- 
ing, and an abrupt falling away of the ground suggested 
the ending of the forest. They turned their steps in that 
direction and at the end of a few minutes were standing on 
the edge of a valley which sloped away at their feet. 

‘ Surely those are houses,’ said Ulrica, shading her eyes 
with her hand. In the grassy hollow down below dark 
blocks stood about which, in the uncertain light, might 


AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. 


135 


have passed for huts. Were not those their moss-grown 
roofs and was not that the blue smoke curling from their 
chimneys ? That patch of waving green, how like it was to 
half-ripe wheat, only that wheat is not half ripe in Septem- 
ber ; those gleams of white under the trees, did they not 
irresistibly suggest a family washing-day ? It wanted but 
the bark of a dog to make the illusion complete. The 
whole bore a fantastic, phantom-like appearance of habita- 
tion which it took a steady gaze to dispel. The would-be 
huts were nothing but fragments of rock dotting the floor 
of the valley ; the smoke was but the chill haze of the 
autumn evening gathering round them in the hollow ; the 
wheat was overgrown grass ; the gleams of white were the 
shining birch-stems. The valley was pathless and silent. 
It was with a shock of surprise that the solitude here pro- 
claimed itself. The very suggestion of a human presence 
made the real loneliness all the more palpable. 

‘ One thing is quite certain,’ said Ulrica, ‘ we have lost 
our way.’ 

And as she spoke the blaze of sunset was roughly extin- 
guished under a heavy cloud and something pattered 
softly in the branches overhead. The question as to the 
fair or the rainy night was decided now without doubt. 

Clearly there was no time to be lost, and calculating 
their direction as best they could by the position of the set- 
ting sun, they set out again at a brisker pace. The valley 
was traversed, and once more they plunged into the forest 
on the other side. A short cut home might be effected this 
way, at least so Ulrica had calculated, but soon doubts 
began to assail her. Opening after opening showed itself in 
the forest, only to close again and shut them in once more 
in the dense blackness of pine trees. Time after time they 
seemed to be gaining some height from whence a compre- 
hensive view of the country might be obtained, and when 
the height was reached there was another beyond, and be- 
yond that another and another in despairing succession. 

Meanwhile it was raining steadily and hard. Before 
they had walked for an hour the ground had grown peril- 
ously slippery, and with every minute darkness was increas- 
ing the difficulty. 


136 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

‘It looks like a case of “babes in the woods/” remarked 
Sir Gilbert presently. From time to time he looked at his 
watch ; after the first two or three times he had to strike a 
match to do so. Seven o’clock, eight, nine, and still no 
lightening of the trees, no end to the forest. Silence had 
long ago fallen between them, broken only occasionally 
by some remark of Sir Gilbert’s. He was walking beside 
Ulrica now. A minute ago she had stumbled and all but 
fallen. 

‘ Take my arm,’ he said to her. 

‘ It is not necessary,’ said Ulrica. ‘ I can walk alone, I 
am so strong.’ 

‘ That may be, but I am stronger.’ And without further 
parley he took her hand and drew it within his arm ; pres- 
ently he broke a branch from a tree, snapped off the 
smaller twigs and put it into her hand : ‘ That will do for 
the other side,’ he remarked. 

Ulrica submitted in silence. Her aching feet were be- 
ginning to drag painfully, her temples throbbed with the 
continued exertion, and yet she was praying in her heart 
that the end of the forest might never come. It is true 
that she was strong, but for this very reason it seemed like 
a luxury to be weak for once. At one place there was a 
stream to cross, and he lifted her from one stone to the 
other as though she • had been a child. After a time he 
noticed that her teeth were chattering with the cold, for 
she had started from the Marienhof in her indoor costume, 
and had long since been drenched to the skin. ‘ I am 
sorry I have nothing better,’ said Sir Gilbert, as he took off 
his coat and wrapped it round her. A faint protest rose 
to her lips, but he silenced it on the instant. He was not 
given to catching colds, he said cheerfully, and he did not 
wish to be answerable for her suicide. 

It was close to ten o’clock when out of the blackness of 
a wooded hollow below them a yellow light gleamed sud- 
denly, like a star fallen to the earth. It disappeared and 
reappeared and sunk into the ground and started up again 
on the most unexpected spot, after the tantalising manner 
of such beacon-lights, and altogether played Will-o’-the- 
Wisp to the best of its ability. Fortunately it could not 


AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. 


37 


keep up the part for long, seeing that it was no Will-o’- 
the-Wisp, but a most prosaic petroleum lamp standing at 
that moment on a remarkably solid and not in the least 
ghostlike wooden table. The antlers above the door as 
well as the avalanche of Dachshund puppies which greeted 
Ulrica and Sir Gilbert on the threshold loudly proclaimed 
the forester’s dwelling. The forester himself came to the 
door in answer to Sir Gilbert’s knock. There was no need of 
explanation or appeals; the situation explained itself. Nor 
were they solitary in their misfortune, for on entering the 
warmed and lighted room whence the soft tones of a zither 
were stealing forth, every seat was found to be occupied 
by refugees who were obviously in the same plight as 
themselves. Five or six ladies and as many gentlemen, in 
fashionable attire but in a somewhat draggled condition, 
were gathered round the table, doing their best not to look 
too obviously bored by the succession of Volkslieder which 
a sturdy youth in the grey and green forester’s garb was 
bashfully yet persevering! y eliciting from his zither. Wet 
umbrellas Stood about in the comers with little pools of 
water gathering around them. Upon chairs and benches 
pushed up to the gigantic stove, jackets, hats, coats, 
scarfs, all in a uniformly moist condition, were artistically 
disposed. A picnic party caught in the rain was written 
in large letters over the whole group. The ladies’ hair was 
out of curl, the gentlemen’s collars were limp. Ribbons 
were discoloured and frills flattened, everything that was 
meant to mstle now at most feebly flapped, everything that 
had once stood up crisply now hung down in deep de- 
jection. 

There were more antlers on the wall here, some stuffed 
birds on a shelf, and in one corner a well-filled gun-rack. 
Of Dachshund puppies there seemed to be an unlimited 
supply ; they appeared out of every corner, romped noisily 
with some unfortunate hat or glove which had slipped from 
its position on the drying-ground beside the stove, and 
seemed to take a special delight in tripping up every moist 
excursionist who unwarily left his place. 

It was no surprise to Ulrica and Sir Gilbert to hear that 
they were so many miles from Glockenau, that the return 


138 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

could not be thought of before morning. After the dripping 
forest even a wooden bench was luxury, and being the last 
arrivals and consequently the wettest, the kindly forester 
steered them to the seats nearest the stove, from which some 
of the half-dried articles of attire were rapidly removed. 

It Was some time before the chill began to leave Ulrica’s 
veins and the first intolerable sensation of fatigue passed 
away. A cup of hot coffee administered by the forester’s 
wife revived her so far that she began to feel some faint 
curiosity with regard to their fellow-sufferers. They be- 
longed to a world which she had abandoned long ago ; she 
had even forgotten that such a world existed so close to 
Glockenau. She turned her head and scanned the group 
round the table with a certain interest. There was no 
mistaking the stamp its different members bore. Draggled 
though the toilettes were, they were undoubtedly toilettes^ 
not mere dresses. 

Even the tone of the voices and even the turns of head 
and tricks of manner carried Ulrica back in memory to 
that torturing yet dazzling afternoon which she had spent 
in the Villa Flora. Here were a couple of red-haired 
girls, who, but for their red hair, might have been taken 
for diluted copies of the two young Countesses Tiefenthal ; 
here was a portly matron who unmistakably belonged to 
the Countess Minart order of women, and here — what was 
this ? Ulrica turned abruptly away from her scrutiny of 
the group. She had met the free-and-easy gaze of a pair 
of black eyes which somehow or other seemed familiar to 
her. Surely she had seen that face before, yes, and seen 
it in the Villa Flora. It took her but a minute to recall 
the circumstances and to recognise the smooth-shaven feat- 
ures of Baron Bernersdorf. He on his side had obviously 
not yet recognised her, though by the puzzled expression 
of his face it was evident that he was questioning his 
memory. In that moment Ulrica blessed the disguising 
black silk handkerchief which of late had somehow lost its 
charm in her eyes. Vexation sent the blood to her fore- 
head ; she bit her lip till it bled. What capricious chance 
had landed Baron Bernersdorf of all people in the world in 
the very heart of this wilderness of forest ? 


AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. I39 

‘ Is anything wrong ? ’ inquired Sir Gilbert, noticing her 
change of expression. 

‘ Nothing,’ she answered hurriedly. ‘ I have had an un- 
pleasant surprise, that is all.’ 

The two were sitting side by side, apart from the mem- 
bers of the picnic party, and except for the watchful gaze 
of Baron Bernersdorf, sublimely ignored by them, though 
in truth the curiosity of the young Countesses and Baron- 
esses had been considerably aroused by the appearance of 
this oddly assorted couple, for Sir Gilbert was as unmis- 
takably an Englishman as Ulrica, despite her dress, was 
unmistakably not a peasant. 

Presently the voices at the other end of the room be- 
came more animated, there was a general pushing away of 
chairs and a scuffling of feet. The zither-playing youth, 
having exhausted his repertoire of Volkslieder^ had struck 
the chords of the Blue Danube waltz. Some one let fall 
the word ‘ dancing,’ and instantly the drooping spirits of. 
the party revived. After all, what better way could there 
be of passing the long wet hours until the carriages which 
had been sent for could reach the forester’s house? How 
could the failure of the picnic be more appropriately re- 
deemed than by this rustic ‘hop,’ which presented such 
admirable opportunities for the taking up again of those 
threads of flirtation which the unwelcome rain had so wo- 
fully relaxed? These young ladies had come out on a 
picnic, not because they were particularly enthusiastic about 
either pine trees, or moss, or rocks, or mountain streams, 
but because the combination of these various things pre- 
sented certain advantages not to be overlooked either by 
match-making mammas or by more or less youthful maid- 
ens anxious to be settled in life. If nothing else, they did 
as a background for the spick-and-span costume which is 
invariably donned for these occasions. 

With one accord the young Countesses and Baronesses 
now threw off the oppression which the consciousness of 
their uncurled hair and their unpowdered cheeks had 
brought with it, and awoke to the fact that all was not yet 
lost. There was a hasty rearranging of folds and a uni- 
versal brightening of eyes ; the very frills seemed to be in- 


140 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

fected by the general revival and to regain something of 
their starch. In five minutes’ time the improvise dance was 
in full swing. A single zither is indeed a somewhat meagre 
ballroom orchestra, but desperate people are not particu- 
lar, and the young forester’s fingers were for the next horn- 
kept in pretty constant motion. The stuffed owls and 
hawks on the shelves stared down in surprise with their 
round glass eyes at the goings-on at their feet, and from 
time to time the yelps of some Dachshund puppy whose 
tail had got into the way of one of the dancers was heard 
above the zither music. 

A minute ago Sir Gilbert had crossed the room to where 
their host sat, in order to borrow a light for his cigar. 
Ulrica sat alone in her comer beside the stove, when sud- 
denly she was aware of a shadow beside her. 

‘ I think you have dropped your handkerchief,’ drawled 
a voice she remembered. 

She turned sharply round and found herself face to face 
with Baron Bernersdorf. He was holding towards her a 
delicate scrap of lace which certainly was not her handker- 
chief, but which gave him as good an excuse as any other 
for satisfying his curiosity by a nearer view of her face. 
It was evident that, until this moment, he had been puz- 
zled ; now, as he riveted his eyes upon her, Ulrica read 
recognition in the sudden smile of enlightenment which 
played round his lips. He was about to speak again, to 
claim acquaintance no doubt, but at that moment he 
glanced past Ulrica, made the ghost of a grim-ace, and, 
with a smooth bow, glided away among the dancers just 
as Sir Gilbert returned to his cousin’s side. 

Sir Gilbert’s eyes followed Baron Bernersdorf with a look 
of surprise, and then returned to Ulrica’s face. 

‘ You seem to have found an acquaintance,’ he observed, 
somewhat drily. 

‘ It is only Baron Bernersdorf. I met him three years 
ago,’ she hurriedly replied. The history of her acquaint- 
ance with the Baron would always remain one of the most 
disagreeable reminiscences of her early girlhood. 

Sir Gilbert did not press his question further, but after 
another glance at her flushed face, on which disturbance 


AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. 


I4I 

was clearly written, leant back in his seat and silently 
watched the dancers. 

Ulrica had pulled her chair as far out of the way as 
possible, so that she sat somewhat in the rear of her cousin. 
She waited till she saw that his attention was engaged, then, 
softly rising from her seat, she stole from the room. Out 
in the dark passage she. drew a breath of relief. She had 
nothing in common with that gay company in there ; its 
pleasures were to her as unintelligible as its conversation. 
The revolving couples bewildered her, and the conscious- 
ness of Baron Bernersdorf’s pursuing gaze disquieted her. 
She would look for a safer spot. A door stood half-open 
at the further end of the passage ; she approached it and 
entered a dimly lighted space. It was the kitchen. Red 
embers still gleamed in the oven, and a tallow-candle on 
the table was burning to its end. Here there was peace 
and solitude, no whirling waltzers, and no yelping puppies, 
nothing but a* sleepy white cat who came to rub herself 
drowsily against Ulrica’s skirt. She sat down on a stool 
beside the table, the cat purred at her feet, the embers fell 
softly in the oven, and from the other end of the passage the 
laughing and talking and the zither music sounded in sub- 
dued confusion. Presently the purring and the zither-play- 
ing and the dropping of the embers seem to grow mixed 
and faint ; Ulrica’s arms were laid on the table and her 
head sank down upon them. 

She had not dozed for more than two minutes when a 
sound in the room awakened her. She looked up with a 
start. On the other side of the table stood Baron Bern- 
ersdorf, his hands in his pockets, his eyes fixed upon her 
face. 

‘ That was a very good idea of yours,’ he observed, with 
his impertinent smile. ‘ I was beginning to be afraid that I 
was not to have the chance of claiming acquaintance. If 
I were a little vainer than I am, I might even flatter my- 
self that it is not to mere chance that I owe this charming 
tete-a-tete. Do you know that it took me quite half-an-hour 
to recognise you ? That handkerchief did its best to baffle 
me ; and then the unlikelihood of the thing. How could I 
foresee that a week’s shooting in Toni Bellerth’s Jagd- 


142 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

schloss would end in a picnic, and that the picnic would 
end in a meeting with my fair acquaintance of the Helen- 
enthal ? ’ 

It had taken Ulrica a minute to recover her senses. She 
saw that she had done a very foolish thing when she left 
the crowded room over there ; there was nothing for it 
now but to convince Baron Bemersdorf with the least pos- 
sible delay that it had not been done for his sake. With- 
out making any answer she rose from her seat. 

‘ Don’t be in such a desperate hurry,’ said the Baron, 
with his hands still in his pockets. He stood so that in 
order to reach the door Ulrica would be forced to pass 
close by him. ‘ I am tortured with curiosity ; why this 
dress, and who is he — the lucky man, who appears to en- 
joy so large a share of your confidence ? ’ 

Ulrica was still standing beside the table; she faced 
Baron Bemersdorf with blazing eyes. 

‘Take care what you are saying — Sir Gilbert Nevyll is 
my cousin.’ 

‘ Your cousin f Yet I have known you to show consider- 
able mistrust of relations — witness my experience of three 
years ago. We are cousins as well, are we not, somehow 
or other ! ’ 

‘ No, you are not my cousin, you cannot be,’ exclaimed 
Ulrica vehemently. The word applied to Baron Bemers- 
dorf seemed like a desecration. ‘ Let me pass. Three 
years ago I pitied you ; if you do not want me to despise 
you as well, stand aside now and let me pass.’ 

Baron Bemersdorf was a great deal too experienced not 
to perceive at a glance that this was no sham retreat. 
The tete-a-tete with Ulrica would have amused him, but 
it . was not worth the bother of a scandal. With a slight 
shrug he stood aside and Ulrica walked past him. She 
had not reached the door when she stood still with a shock 
of fear. In the doorway she had caught sight of a tall 
figure, a man with a pale face, on which violent emotion of 
some sort was written. It was her cousin Gilbert. She 
had seen him as in a vision ; for one instant he had stood 
thus and then he was gone — gone, after having discovered 
her here with Baron Bemersdorf. He had looked so pale. 


AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. 


H3 

what could it mean? Was it possible that he had put 
upon her withdrawal from the other room the same con- 
struction that the Baron had thought fit to put upon it? 
The idea, at any rate, did not seem to have struck her 
alone, for at that moment she heard the Baron laughing 
softly to himself. She turned fiercely upon him. 

‘ Why did you come here ? Oh, you don’t know what 
you have done ! ’ 

‘ No great harm, I hope ; I should be desolated if I had 
given rise to a so-called ‘'scene.” A few words with your 
— cousin will' put it right, no doubt. I wonder you don’t 
go after him to explain matters,’ he added, with a polite 
sneer. 

‘ I am going,’ said Ulrica, as with head held high she 
stepped out into the passage. An irresistible impulse was 
pushing her to follow her cousin, to speak to him, to say 
she knew not what, to throw over some barrier which she 
could not have defined but which she yet believed had 
sprung up between them within the last minute. 

Sir Gilbert was standing at the other end of the passage, 
staring cut through the dark window. Ulrica went up to 
where he stood, hurriedly, breathlessly, not knowing what 
she should say to him, feeling only that she must justify 
herself in his. eyes, at any price, by any means. ^ 

‘ Cousin Gilbert,’ she faltered, ‘ let me explain.’ 

As she spoke he turned. 

‘ You do not need to explain,’ he said, commanding his 
voice with difficulty, ‘ I heard enough.’ 

Ulrica could see his face better now: the excitement 
was still there, but it was a joyful excitement ; the surprise 
and the horror which she had thought to read in his feat- 
ures were vanished. 

‘ You heard — what ? ’ 

‘I heard you giving that fellow his deserts,’ and Sir 
Gilbert laughed. ‘ I was almost sorry for the poor wretch. 
Had the man insulted you ? ’ 

‘ No,’ said Ulrica, lying boldly. ‘ He only bored me.’ 

She foresaw that an admission of the truth must inevit- 
ably result in a collision between the two men, and she 
knew that, according to the custom of the country, such a 
10 


144 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

collision could only be remedied by the choice of pistols 
or swords. The shock of dismay with which the prospect 
filled her made many things clear to Ulrica. 

‘ I must thank you,’ said Sir Gilbert, taking her hand, 
'you have lifted a weight from my mind. Forgive me for 
having doubted you for one instant.’ And in that moment 
their eyes met, in the next he had dropped her hand and 
turned abruptly away. The movement passed unnoticed 
by Ulrica, or rather it seemed to explain itself naturally, for 
in that moment the door beside them opened and the com- 
pany came streaming out, hooded and cloaked and in the 
best of spirits. The dance had been a great success, and 
the carriages were now standing at the door. 

‘ Midnight and more,’ said the forester’s wife, as she led 
off Ulrica to take what rest she could find on a couch 
which was at least as hastily got up as the dance had been. 
The good woman had taken great pains to drag together 
pillows and had displayed considerable ingenuity in the 
adaptation of covers, but she might as well have saved her- 
self the trouble, for it w^as not until the square of the win- 
dow began to whiten in the growing daylight that Ulrica 
at length fell asleep. 


CHAPTER XV. 

CYCLAMEN. 

'Holy Saint Barbara!’ ejaculated the landlady of the 
'Golden Sun,’ as she stood at the inn-door, following 
with her eyes a couple who were walking up the village 
street, ' the good days of the house are numbered, and no 
mistake. Either he has just come to the point or he is 
just coming to it, and by her face it isn’t hard to say how 
it will end. I have never seen her look like that before. 
I declare, I should scarcely have known her.’ 

So the landlady might well say, and small wonder, see- 
ing that Ulrica had some difficulty in recognising herself 


CYCLAMEN. 


145 


to-day. The light in her eyes, the glow on her cheek, 
which the mirror had shown her this morning, seemed to 
belong not to her, but to some new Ulrica, a happier, more 
light-hearted Ulrica, who had been born since yesterday. 
So completely had buoyancy of spirit mastered bodily ex- 
haustion that as she passed up the village street with her 
cousin by her side, her step was as elastic, her bearing as 
light, as though the fatigues of yesterday had never been. 

She had not been alone with her cousin since the mo- 
ment that she had stood beside him in the passage of the 
forester’s house last night. She had longed for and yet 
dreaded such a moment as this. During the drive of the 
morning which had brought them back’to Glockenau she 
had regarded the presence of the young zither-player of 
last night, who acted as driver, alternately as a protection 
and an encumbrance ; and when the first thing which met 
her at the Marienhof was an urgent summons from the 
miller’s wife, whom she counted among the most pertina- 
cious of her protegh^ it was with a thrill of mixed emotions 
that she saw Sir Gilbert preparing to accompany her. 
That he should do so had indeed come to be a matter of 
course, but something told her that this walk would not 
be as other walks, that before she again put her foot on 
the threshold of the Marienhof some great and wonderful 
change would have come over her life. 

Everything had become clear to her. The light in the 
passage of the forester’s house had not burned very 
brightly, yet brightly enough to let her read the truth in 
her cousin’s eyes and to illuminate her own heart to its 
very depth. That one brief look which had passed be- 
tween them had been as the answer to all the riddles of 
these last so delicious yet so puzzling weeks. 

Until this moment she had nourished hope with shadows, 
had been conscious only from time to time that the ground 
she walked on was uncertain, darkened even occasionally 
by the suggestion of something strange and unintelligible, 
which, at times, was shadowed forth in her cousin’s mood 
and manner. During all these weeks he had never, di- 
rectly or indirectly, in the ordinary acceptation of the 
word, made love to her. Looking back at these days of 


146 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

constant intercourse she could not recall one moment or 
one incident which, closely analysed and reduced to its 
logical elements, could have given her the right to imagine 
that she was more to him than just his cousin Ulrica. It 
was instinct alone which had discovered something beyond 
the logical elements, and now she recognised that instinct 
had told her right. All doubts had vanished. The veil 
of ignorance with which the landlady’s clumsy fingers had 
been the first to meddle was now brushed aside forever, 
and see, there was nothing terrible that lay behind, noth- 
ing which need poison her peace — it was, on the contrary, 
something beautiful and wonderful, which bid fair to turn 
the earth into paradise. All the hopes and wishes which 
until now had not dared to do more than stir softly and to 
whisper beneath their breath, leapt up vigorous and full- 
grown, throwing off their fetters and raising their voices as 
with one accord to a hymn of triumph. 

That love played a not inconsiderable part in the world 
Ulrica had indeed known ; the stripling with the curly hair 
and the bundle of arrows had come her way more than 
once, but for this cherub who met her with a leer or reeled 
tipsily across her path she had no understanding. That a 
better and brighter love existed she did not doubt, but if 
she thought of it at all she thought of it as of something 
which was meant only for people who were less oppressed 
by the cares of life, less hampered by practical considera- 
tions than she was. All the more overwhelming was the 
reality which had overpowered her now. Such complete 
possession had it taken of her that not only the light in 
her eyes and the colour on her cheeks spoke of the trans- 
formation she had undergone, but even her whole manner 
and bearing was penetrated by its influence. All the way 
to the mill she laughed and talked as she had never laughed 
and talked before ; occasionally, and quite against her habit, 
she would burst into snatches of song ; ever and again her 
step seemed to break into a dance. It seemed almost as 
though the great joy had made her light-headed. Now 
that the longed-for yet dreaded moment had come, an al- 
most childish exultation had gained the upper hand, and 
that troubled thrill of expectation lay still beneath its 


CYCLAMEN. 


147 


power. So busy was she with her own new self that she 
never noticed Sir Gilbert’s taciturn mood, nor marked the 
uneasy, questioning glances which, from time to time, he 
turned upon her. Her gaiety awoke no response in him, 
rather it seemed to disquiet him. From minute to minute 
his replies were growing more laconic and his glance more 
moody. 

* You seem in a wonderfully good humour to-day,’ he re- 
marked once, in a tone that sounded almost like irritation. 

‘Yes, I am in a very good humour,’ answered Ulrica 
simply. 

When the errand at the mill had been accomplished, 
and Ulrica, instead of turning homewards, passed on up 
the forest-path, it was with a curious hesitating reluctance 
that Sir Gilbert followed her. But still Ulrica saw noth- 
ing ; her eyes, dazzled by the glory of her great discovery, 
were blind to the mere details of the moment. Instinct- 
ively she turned her steps towards her favourite spot, the 
ruins of the old mill. She had sat here with her cousin 
more than once since the day after his arrival, but never 
had the spirit of this delicious nook so entered into her 
own spirit as it did to-day. She tasted the idyllic solitude 
as she had never before tasted it; she read aright the 
meaning of those two moss-grown seats which chance had 
flung there side by side ; the loud voice and the soft voice 
of the trickling water spoke to her as they never before had 
spoken. It was only since yesterday that she had learnt 
their language. 

‘ Surely the moss has grown thicker and the grass 
greener since we were here last,’ said Ulrica, with the laugh 
of a happy child. ‘ How pretty that thrush looks drinking 
out of the pool. Oh, and cyclamens! ’ 

Within the last few days many slender buds had opened 
in the grass, and now the forest floor was strewn with 
countless reddish lilac blossoms. 

‘ I must have some,’ cried Ulrica, and she stooped to 
gather flower after flower ; in less than two minutes her 
hands were full. ‘ I wonder whether I could make a 
wreath of them,’ she said, as with the flowers heaped in 
her apron she sat down upon the old millstone beside the 


148 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

Stream. To gather flowers merely for the pleasure of 
doing so was a thing which as a rule did not enter her 
head. As a child her small fingers had never fastened a 
daisy-chain or fashioned a cowslip ball, they had always 
been employed in graver tasks. And yet these things were 
made for her as well as for others — she had discovered 
that to-day. Truly these were long, long arrears of anxiety 
and care, of gravity beyond her age, that Ulrica had to 
bring up on this day of days. 

Sir Gilbert was standing two paces off, his brows drawn 
into a heavy frown, his eyes fixed intently upon Ulrica as 
she sat by the mill stream arranging the treasures in her 
lap. 

‘ Are you going to stand all the time I am making my 
wreath 1 ’ she asked, glancing up at him. ‘ I warn you that 
it will take some time ; these grass-stalks are rather a slip- 
pery substitute for thread.’ 

Sir Gilbert made no reply, but stood for a minute 
longer, then, as though rousing himself by an effort, he 
made a step forward and sat down on the second mill- 
stone. 

This was exactly as it should be, Ulrica felt more than 
thought, as she busied herself with her flowers. She was 
too happy to be impatient. It had been on the mere im- 
pulse of the moment, with no wish to hurry on the crisis, 
that she had led the way to this- shadowy retreat. To her 
everything appeared clear and straight ; the end which she 
had foreseen last night must be attained to-day — of that 
she never doubted. At what exact moment it would be 
attained was of less consequence ; she was quite ready to 
wait, since she never for a moment dreamt that her happi- 
ness could escape her. He loved her — she knew that now 
— consequently he would tell her so ; could anything be 
simpler! Not to Ulrica, at any rate, who, despite the 
harsh experiences of her life, was as a very child in such 
matters as this. No, it was not impatience she felt, only a 
moderate curiosity as to the exact shape which the great 
moment would take. Would he clothe what he liad to say 
in words ? And in what w^ords ! Or would he content him- 
self with taking her hand between his own and allow his 


CYCLAMEN. 


149 


eyes to speak for him ? Ulrica had never read a novel in 
her life, nor had she ever possessed a girl confidante; she 
therefore had no foundation on which to build up the 
probabilities of the case. 

It had rained itself out in the night, and this afternoon 
was clear and still, with a pale blue autumn sky and a deli- 
cate crispness in the air. Through the red and yellow 
leaves of the bushes which girdled the spot the sunshine 
glowed with softened power, as though it were shining 
through windows of stained glass. Summer was indeed 
departing, but departing with reluctant steps and many a 
long and lingering backward glance. 

‘ I am glad it is a fine day,’ said Ulrica ; ‘ I should not 
have liked it to be dull or rainy just to-day.’ 

‘ Why not just to-day ? ’ asked Sir Gilbert quickly. 

‘ Oh, it is only an idea of mine,’ and she bent over her 
flowers in order to hide the smile which would not be sup- 
pressed. Presently she raised her head again. 

‘ I wonder,’ she began, ‘ whether I am too old to learn 
to dance ? Do you think I am ? ’ 

‘You are very young, are you not?’ was Sir Gilbert’s 
somewhat vague reply. 

‘Yes. I am just twenty ; I suppose that is not old, but 
somehow I had forgotten that I was young. I daresay I 
could learn it still. I suppose it is a rather foolish amuse- 
ment, but there must be something in it since people are 
so wild about dancing ; those girls last night seemed to be 
having such fun. After all, now that I come to think of 
it, it was rather amusing to sit and watch them. And 
those poor little dogs, the way they could not keep their 
tails out of the way of the dancers ; it didn’t seem to me 
so funny then, but really it was very absurd ! ’ and Ulrica 
broke into a clear and ringing laugh. 

Sir Gilbert started and frowned. Her laugh seemed to 
have touched him disagreeably. 

‘ It didn’t look so very diflicult, either,’ continued Ulrica, 
as she added flower after flower to the wreath which was 
rapidly growing beneath her fingers ; ‘ and if the floor was 
good and one had the proper shoes on, I suppose it would 
be easier still. Are you fond of dancing, Cousin Gilbert ? ’ 


150 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

There was no immediate answer, and she repeated her 
question. Sir Gilbert appeared to be absorbed in knocking 
off pieces of moss from the stone beside him. 

' Who ? I ? ’ he said, rousing himself at her second ques- 
tion, and speaking in a strange, bewildered manner. ‘ Of 
dancing? Oh no; why should I care about dancing?’ 

‘ But they dance in London, don’t they ? And you gen- 
erally go to London in the season.’ 

‘ Did I ? Yes, I daresay I did ; but one gets tired of 
these things in time.’ 

‘ You have given up balls ? ’ 

‘ More or le;ss.’ 

; ‘ When were you at your last ball ? ’ 

‘ I really cannot remember.’ 

* A real big ball must be a very beautiful thing,’ said 
Ulrica, almost wistfully, ‘ with all the lights, and the dresses, 
and the shining floors ; I suppose people who give balls 
have got rooms like those in the Villa Flora. I wonder 
whether I shall ever go to a ball! There, I must see 
whether this wreath is big enough,’ and she unknotted her 
handkerchief and proceeded to fasten the flowers in her 
hair. Was it not natural and proper that she should crown 
herself thus, seeing that this was her hour of triumph ? 

‘ Could I go to a ball with this wreath on, I wonder ? ’ 
She laughed again and again. He winced as though her 
laugh had been a sharp knife which touched him. ‘ I think 
that if ever I go to a ball I must wear cyclamen in my 
hair.’ - 

Sir Gilbert raised his eyes slowly from the moss he was 
ill-treating, and looked at her for one instant. She had 
never appeared half so lovely as she did now, with the 
delicate flush on her cheek and the softened light in her 
eyes. The diadem of pale lilac flowers which pressed her 
brow gave to her beauty something new and queenlike. 
He looked for one instant, then set his teeth and turned 
away. 

Ulrica’s ear had not caught the groan which had escaped 
him, but she had seen the agitation on his face, and her 
attention was aroused at last. He had been inattentive, 
preoccupied, she told herself now, as she threw a mental 


CYCLAMEN. 


151 

glance backwards over the last half-hour. Something was 
weighing on his mind, that was clear. Could it be that he 
had failed to guess, her secret as she had guessed his, that 
he had not read in her eyes that which she had read in his, 
and that he doubted his success ? Once more an irrepres- 
sible smile rose to her lips. Or perhaps he was only con- 
sidering in what words he should speak to her. She glanced 
sideways at him. He was sitting with his face averted ; 
yet something in his attitude, in the grasp of his hand upon 
his stick, which lay on his knee, in the quicker breath 
marked by the movement of his shoulders, betrayed the 
agitation against which he struggled. All at once Ulrica 
realised that the great moment was approaching ; and now, 
at last, awed by the magnitude of that which was coming, 
her feverish gaiety died suddenly out. Her hands sank 
into her lap, and she sat tongue-tied upon her stone. In 
the same instant she discovered that she was trembling. 
What would the next moment bring f It was impossible 
that Sir Gilbert should speak again to make any casual or 
commonplace remark ; since she had seen his face just 
now she felt assured of that. The pause began to be op- 
pressive, yet Ulrica knew that it could be broken by no 
word of hers. Her tumultuously beating heart seemed as 
though it would choke her. Among the dead leaves at the 
foot of the bushes the thrushes and blackbirds were hopping 
so noisily that twice she turned her head uneasily, almost 
expecting to see a human intruder. In point of fact, it 
was at the end of about a minute and a half, though Ul- 
rica had known few hours and a half which had seemed 
to her so long, that Sir Gilbert turned towards her with a 
sort of jerk. 

‘ By the way,’ he said, speaking with an awkwardness 
which contrasted strangely with his usual ease of manner, 
* you asked me just now, didn’t you, when I last was at a 
ball V He did not look at her as he spoke, but at the old 
mill-wheel which stood in the bed of the stream about half 
a dozen yards from where they sat. 

‘Yes,’ said Ulrica, in blank astonishment, utterly taken 
aback by the irrelevancy of the remark. 

‘ I told you I couldn’t remember. I have remembered 


152 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

now. The last ball I went to was a court ball three years 
ago.’ He paused for just one perceptible second before 
he added: ‘ I went there with Lady Nevyll.’ 

‘Lady Nevyll"?’ replied Ulrica, looking up in surprise. 
‘ I did not know your mother was still alive.’ 

‘ My mother is not alive.’ 

‘Then who is Lady Nevyll?’ 

Sir Gilbert’s glance remained nailed to the mill-wheel as 
intensely as though he were bent on counting its spokes, or 
determining the exact number of half-dead ferns which 
hung from its rotting wood. 

‘ Lady Nevyll,’ he answered with deliberate slowness, ‘is 
my wife.’ 

Ulrica heard the word quite distinctly ; indeed, it had 
been pronounced with such laborious clearness that it was 
not possible to mistake it for any other word ; yet she was 
conscious of no immediate shock. The idea embodied in 
that sentence which had just been spoken lay too many 
worlds asunder from the hope which filled her heart to be 
grasped by her all at once. 

‘ I don’t understand,’ she answered, after a moment’s 
pause ; ‘ you never told me that you had been married. 
Are you a widower. Cousin Gilbert ? ’ 

‘ No, I am not a widower.’ 

‘ But if you are not a widower your wife must be alive ? ’ 

‘ Of course my wife is alive.’ 

‘But if your wife is alive,’ said Ulrica, still with that 
dazed air, and speaking as though she were arguing out 
the case to herself, ‘ you are then a married man ? ’ 

‘ Certainly I am a married man.’ 

Sir Gilbert spoke impatiently, still looking at the mill- 
wheel and not at her. 

‘ You .should have told me that before,’ said Ulrica, very 
quickly, and speaking just above her breath. Scarcely had 
she said it than she pressed her lips together, feeling as 
though she must die of shame. It was his look which had 
borne in the truth upon her more than the mere words in 
themselves. A black cloud seemed to have sunk out of the 
blue sky straight before her eye.s, and through its dense 
gloom she could see the pine trees tottering around her. 


CYCLAMEN. 


153 


The water, which but a minute ago had sung so softly and 
so sweetly, now hissed hideously in her ear. Later on, 
whenever she looked back at this moment, she could re- 
member telling herself that she must not faint, for that if 
she fainted everything would be betrayed. 

‘ Don’t ask me any questions ; it is a sad story.’ 

She heard these words spoken hurriedly in her cousin’s 
voice, without the power of making any reply. In the 
midst of the confusion of her spirit she retained just enough 
presence of mind to reahse that it would be unsafe to trust 
her voice. For greater than the astonishment, and more 
intense than the shock of pain, was the desire to shield her 
dignity, if it were not indeed too late. Away was flown 
all that rare gaiety which had made her heart so light and 
her laugh so clear ; one minute had sufficed to sober her. 
She put down her hand and with trembling fingers felt for 
the stone beside her, steadying herself upon it as she sat. 
The contact with something solid was an actual help in 
this bewildering moment, when everything seemed melting 
from her. What had she said ? she asked herself. Could 
she still hope to cover up that wound which had been 
struck so freshly that it had scarcely yet had time to bleed ? 
That was the first necessity ; as for other considerations, 
they could wait. Never mind details, never mind explana- 
tions, never mind how it was that this extraordinary thing 
could have come to pass ; it had come to pass, that was 
enough ; there would be time enough for all that later ; her 
dignity, her womanly pride, these must be thought of first. 

A commonplace remark, oh, for a commonplace remark ! 
Now would have been the moment. Had Ulrica been a 
student of Shakespeare, it is not unlikely that she would 
have inwardly groaned, 'A kingdom for a commonplace 
remark ! ’ 

The black cloud was by this time tolerably dispersed, 
and the pine trees were again standing straight, but still 
nothing which it would sound rational to say occurred to 
her mind, and Sir Gilbert’s imagination seemed to have run 
as dry as her own. Should it be something about those 
birds still hopping among the rustling leaves % Could she 
not make some remark about the effect of the sunlight on 


154 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


the pine-stems? Yes, surely, that was it. She cleared her 
throat to speak, her lips moved, but her voice would not 
obey her will. It was no use. She sat still for one minute 
longer, as though gathering together her strength, then 
resolutely rose to her feet. 

‘ It is late,’ she said, speaking at last, in a flat and tone- 
less voice, ‘ I am going home.’ 

As she stood up the flowers which filled her apron 
dropped to the ground. She stared at them as they fell, 
then mechanically put up her hand, and pulling the cycla- 
men wreath from her head, flung it into the bed of the little 
stream. Then, followed more slowly by Sir Gilbert, she 
hurried from the spot. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

‘as usual.’ 

Ulrica could never afterwards distinctly remember how 
the walk home was got through ; she knew only that after 
she had once heard the sound of her own voice the spell 
seemed broken and she was again able to speak, even to 
talk. It was difficult to talk, but not so difficult as it 
would have been to remain silent ; and thus, with the help 
of a good many superfluous and painfully self-evident re- 
marks, supported by a few lucky chances in the way of 
meetings with some of Ulrica’s peasant proteges who most 
opportunely happened to be in need of advice, the next 
half-hour was weathered. When they parted at the gate 
of the Marienhof it was with the feeling that they would 
meet again on a different footing next morning. 

Scarcely was the parting over than a great terror came 
upon Ulrica at the thought of this next meeting. When 
the gate had shut behind Sir Gilbert, she walked rapidly 
to the house, and sitting down upon the nearest chair, for 
indeed she would not have been able to stand much longer, 
proceeded to think out the matter. What exactly had hap» 


'AS USUAL.’ 


155 


pened? Her 'cousin Gilbert was a married man, there 
could be no doubt of that. He had told her so distinctly ; 
he was a married man, and it was a sad story — something 
of this sort she had heard him murmur. Was this why his 
wife’s existence had never been mentioned till to-day ? A 
married man ; and, after all, why not f Why, she asked 
herself, had she so unhesitatingly taken for granted that 
Sir Gilbert was a bachelor ? Looking back now, right back 
to the very beginning of her acquaintance, or rather to her 
correspondence with him, she could not imagine what it 
was that had originated the impression, and how the im- 
pression had grown to be a belief. Certainly he had never 
told her that he was married, but neither had he ever told 
her that he was not. Ought not his very reserve and the 
very reluctance he had always exhibited to touch upon 
matters that related to himself have aroused her suspicions ? 
She told herself now that they ought. It was all a mistake 
from beginning to end. Ulrica, having reached this point 
in her reflections, rose from her chair and slowly crossed 
the room towards the door which she had forgotten to 
close. But before she had reached it she stood still and 
put her hand to her forehead, staring straight in front of 
her. She had remembered something. A mistake? No, 
she had not been mistaken in the reading of that one 
glance last night. What, then, was she to think? She 
walked to the door and shut it impatiently, then began to 
busy herself about the room. It was better not to think 
at all ; it was only by keeping her senses collected that she 
could hope successfully to get through the farce which 
would have to be enacted to-morrow. For she was deter- 
mined that the farce should be played out — the farce of his 
being just her cousin Gilbert, and nothing more. She 
would return to the manner and the mood of the early days 
of their intercourse, of the time when she had declared that 
having a cousin was almost as good as having a brother. 
It was true that she had guessed his secret, but it was not 
certain that he had guessed hers. Ulrica, at least, would 
not, even to herself, admit that it was certain. She would 
fight for her secret as long as her strength lasted. 

Sir Gilbert appeared later than usual at the Marienhof 


156 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

next morning, but still he appeared as usual, and looked 
almost as usual, except that by the shadows around his 
eyes it was easy to see that he had not slept. So carefully 
had Ulrica schooled herself that her voice scarcely trembled 
as she said : ‘ Good-morning, Cousin Gilbert.’ She added 
some remark at random as to the prospects of the weather 
for the day, and then she placed a chair for him, exactly 
as she had always done, and went on with the dusting of 
her shelves exactly as usual. It was all exactly as it had 
always been ; she was able to speak and to move, even to 
laugh ; the only thing she was not able to do was to look 
at him. Though her ‘ Good-morning, Cousin Gilbert,’ had 
been very boldly spoken, yet she had taken care to look 
past him at the clock on the wall as she spoke it ; and Sir 
Gilbert, on his side, even while he responded, looked at the 
window opposite, then at the stove, anywhere but at her 
face. As to her outward appearance Ulrica felt tolerably 
easy. She did not think that would betray her. She had 
indeed been startled by the ghastliness of her face this 
morning ; but cold water and a rough towel had remedied 
that to a certain extent, and she took the precaution of 
keeping the light at her back as much as possible. 

‘ Where is Schiller ? ’ said Ulrica presently, speaking with 
a sprightliness of tone which the occasion somehow did 
not seem to demand. ‘ Are we to have no reading this 
morning. Cousin Gilbert?’ 

There was to be no exception made ; since he usually 
read to her during the time that she was occupied with 
dusting the Siube, she was resolved that he should read to 
her to-day. Neither directly nor indirectly was it to be 
admitted that anything had happened since yesterday 
which could make a difference between them ; and, be- 
sides, there was something very badly wanted to fill a gap 
just at that moment, and Schiller would .do as well as any- 
thing else. Sir Gilbert had begun by being exceedingly 
talkative ; his greeting had been so lively as to be almost 
boisterous ; and before he had been two minutes in the 
room Ulrica had recognised, with an immense feeling of 
relief, that the labour of playing out the farce was not to 
be left to her alone. Sir Gilbert had evidently come to 


‘ AS USUAL.’ 


157 


much the same resolution that she had come to last night, 
only, being a man, he naturally played his part much worse. 
It is said that in every woman there lies the seed of an 
actress ; and though Ulrica had never suspected herself of 
the faintest powers of dissimulation, there is no doubt that 
her woman’s wit helped to make tolerable the situation, 
which, left to Sir Gilbert’s mercy, could not have held out 
beyond the first ten minutes. He altogether overdid the 
thing ; his liveliness was immediately recognised as mere 
nervous excitement; his eagerness to talk, to talk in- 
cessantly, and about anything that came to hand, was too 
palpable, and the inevitable result was that the topics thus 
belaboured showed an intolerable tendency to grow thread- 
bare. Occasionally he would appear not to be quite cer- 
tain what he was talking about ; more than once his sen- 
tence remained unfinished, and having sat for some mo- 
ments plunged in thought, he would rouse himself with a 
sort of jerk and start another upon some totally different 
subject. Also he exposed himself to things that were too 
much for his self-control. Thus, for instance, while Ulrica 
was still busying herself desperately with her shelves, he 
exclaimed, with a great show of interest, ' A spider-web ! I 
declare, there’s a spider-web ; you must leave that spider- 
web to me. Cousin Ulrica. Where’s the broom ? ’ 

The broom was fetched, and Sir Gilbert proceeded to 
operate on the rafters. It was not by any means the first 
time that he had done so ; the spider-webs in the angles 
of the ceiling had often before been left to him, seeing that 
they were out of Ulrica’s reach. It had become a sort of 
standing joke for him to spy them out, and he had even 
acquired a certain dexterity in the matter of their annihila- 
tion. But to-day either his dexterity had abandoned 
him or he had become short-sighted ; he brushed away a 
great many more spider-webs than there were on the 
ceiling, while the one actual specimen present escaped 
unmolested. Ulrica, whose attention happened to be 
caught by the circumstance, seized upon it and attempted 
to make capital of it as she would have attempted to 
make capital of anything which promised to fill up a 
few more minutes with harmless talk. She even had the 


158 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

courage to rally him on the inferior quality of his house- 
maid’s work. 

‘ I should infallibly have given you a fortnight’s warning 
for that/ she added, with a laugh. ‘ Give me the broom.’ 

It was not badly done, and sounded almost natural, ex- 
cept that she made the mistake of laughing too loud. And 
then, as she took the broom from him, their hands touched, 
and for one moment the farce was in danger of breaking 
down. Ulrica drew back as though her fingers had 
touched a hot iron ; it was not easy to say which of them 
had let go the broom first, but in the next instant it had 
fallen with a clatter to the ground between them. 

She took a long time to pick it up, while the usually so 
courteous Sir Gilbert, instead of saving her that trouble, 
walked straight to the window and began drumming on the 
panes. It was at this juncture, and as she again raised 
her flushed face, that Schiller occurred to Ulrica’s mind. 
A few more minutes were tided over- with the search for 
the volume, which was not immediately forthcoming, and 
then Sir Gilbert installed himself with it on the Ofenbank^ 
exactly as usual, while Ulrica remained beside her shelves, 
which, to judge from the time they took, must to-day have 
been in want of an extraordinary amount of dusting. The 
shelves gave her an excuse to keep her back towards her 
cousin, and she clung to them, therefore, as though her 
very life depended on the conscientious polishing of each 
plate, and the immaculate spotlessness of each coffee-cup. 
After a time she caught herself not listening. This must 
not be. 

‘ Let me see, what is he reading about ? ’ she said to 
herself. ‘Wallenstein? Surely we finished that several 
days ago.’ 

But, after all, that was a mere matter of detail. She 
must make some sort of remark, just in order to show that 
she was all attention. What scene were they at ? Coun- 
tess Terzky was speaking, she was pleading that the secret 
of the conspiracy should be kept from the Duchess, who 
would not have the strength to bear the announcement. 

‘ No, that she certainly would not,’ remarked Ulrica. 
' I suppose that Duchess was a well-meaning creature, but 


‘AS USUAL.’ 


159 


even in real life I have seldom come across anybody quite 
as colourless as that.’ 

‘ Which Duchess are you speaking about ? ’ asked Sir 
Gilbert, looking up from the book. 

* Why, of Wallenstein’s wife, of course.’ 

‘ Wallenstein ? Oh yes, to be sure ; but wasn’t it Mary 
Stuart ” we began the other day ! ’ 

‘ How odd it is,’ went on Ulrica, rather hurriedly, ' that 
remarkable men so often have insignificant wives. Wallen- 
stein would perhaps have been quite different from what 
he was if he had had a wife who understood him.’ 

‘ Do you think So ? ’ said Sir Gilbert, in so strange a tone 
that Ulrica quickly realised on what dangerous ground she 
had trodden. 

‘ But — but it is a very fine scene,’ she hastened to add, 
'and Wallenstein himself is a most interesting character.’ 

‘ Most interesting,’ assented Sir Gilbert readily. 

'And the language is so fine, even in the translation.’ 

' The language is very fine.’ 

' Though I suppose it must be much finer still in the 
original.’ 

‘ I suppose so ; yes, certainly it must be very much finer 
in the original.’ 

With this all possible platitudes about either Schiller or 
Wallenstein seemed to be exhausted, and something else 
had to be quickly resorted to. 

Oh, the horror of that long, weary forenoon! Out of 
doors it would have been easier to get through the time, 
but long before Ulrica had done dusting her shelves the 
morning mist had dissolved itself into rain, and a walk 
could not be thought of. This room, in which she had 
spent so many happy hours, now appeared to her like a 
prison-house ; she could scarcely breathe its air. From 
minute to minute the strain was growing more intense, 
from minute to minute it was becoming more difficult to 
avoid those terrible pauses of silence which more and more 
seemed to be charged with electricity. Try as she would, 
Ulrica could not again hit off that tone of cousinly friend- 
liness which had made the early days of their intercourse 
so pleasant ; it eluded her at every turn. 

II 


l6o A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

It was a relief beyond words when one o’clock struck 
and Sir Gilbert rose — this also was just as usual — to go 
for his dinner to the inn. She would have an hour or two 
of respite, Ulrica told herself, it would be at any rate a 
pause between the acts ; but scarcely had an hour passed 
when she heard the well-known step outside and the well- 
known knock at the door. 

Was he back already ? Was the second act of the farce 
to follow so quickly upon the first ? 

She rose with a feeling of despair, and opened the door. 
Sir Gilbert was standing on the doorstep. 

‘ You are surprised to see me back so soon,’ he began 
at once, speaking with nervous haste, ‘ but I have got a 
letter which makes it necessary for me to start, so I 
thought I had better come to say good-bye at once ; I 
have not begun my packing yet, so I am afraid I can’t 
stop.’ 

‘You are going away?’ said Ulrica, in dismay, forget- 
ting her part for one moment. Somehow she had not 
foreseen this very natural contingency. 

‘Yes, it is urgent business ; I mustn’t lose a day.’ 

‘ Oh no, of course if it is urgent business you mustn’t 
lose a day.’ 

She had already recovered herself sufficiently to be able 
to say this almost as though she meant it. She knew per- 
fectly well that Sir Gilbert could by no possible means 
have got a letter within the last hour, seeing that the one 
mail in the day came by the Stellwagen in the evening ; 
and Sir Gilbert himself, had he reflected for a moment, 
must have been conscious of the absolute untenability of 
his assertion, but even had he so reflected it is probable 
that he would still have made the assertion. At junctures 
like this even a transparent screen is better than no screen 
at all. 

‘You wish me a lucky journey, and all that sort of 
thing, do you not ? ’ said Sir Gilbert, putting out his hand 
with a very odd laugh. ‘I shall look in for affinal good- 
bye if I can, but I have lots to do at the inn, packing and 
settling and so on, so I can’t be absolutely certain.’ 

And then for one instant their hands met — it could not 


OPHELIA. 


l6l 


be otherwise — their eyes just managed to escape meeting, 
and Sir Gilbert was rapidly walking down the path and 
Ulrica stood alone in the doorway. 

He would not come back, of that she felt certain, 
though she was aware that there wanted four hours to the 
starting of the Stellwagen, and though she knew that the 
‘ settling ’ would be at most an affair of ten minutes, while 
the ‘ packing ’ consisted in stuffing some shirts and some 
hairbrushes into a roomy portmanteau. And of course 
he did not come back. 

She did not leave the house that afternoon, and when it 
drew near six o’clock she stood a few paces back from the 
window, where she could not be seen, waiting to hear the 
rumble of the departing Stellwagen. She debated within 
herself as to whether she ought not to show herself, 
whether it would not appear more natural, more ‘ as' usual,’ 
if she stood at the window and waved him a farewell ? 
She had even taken a handkerchief in her hand and made 
a step forward, but then her courage failed her. 

She stood still just behind the curtain and listened while 
the rumble swelled, while it came close and died away. 
Then she turned back into the room. 

' So that is over,’ she said aloud. Yet in her heart a 
voice cried out that it had only begun. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

OPHELIA. 

It was not till long after dark that the Stellwagen 
reached the terminus of its journey. • Next morning it 
would start back again the way it had come, for here the 
limits of that very respectable vehicle’s kingdom were 
reached. From this point onward the steam-whistle took 
up the song of the postilion’s horn. 

Sir Gilbert had had the interior of the Stellwagen to 
himself, he had the platform of the little lonely country 


1 62 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

Station almost to himself as well. Though the local line 
had been opened some years ago, the neighbourhood had 
not yet got used to night travelling. 

‘ Where to ? ’ asked a sleepy voice at his elbow. The 
traveller became aware that he had been standing in a 
brown study straight in front of the ticket-office. 

‘ Where to ? I’ve asked you twice.’ Sir Gilbert looked 
hard at the man. 

‘ Where to ? ’ He was putting the same question to him- 
self in his mind. 

‘ Can I have a ticket straight to Calais ? ’ he inquired 
after a minute. 

So unprecedented was the request that the drowsy clerk 
first gave one long incredulous stare, then, with a groan, 
sleepily pulled towards him a heavy volume in which he be- 
gan to turn over page after page, going through various arith- 
metical calculations between whiles upon stray sheets of 
blotting-paper. It was evident that the calculations were 
not going to lead to any very immediate result, and Sir 
Gilbert, moving away from the window, began to study the 
railway-maps on the wall. Besides these maps the walls 
were ornamented with various illustrated and highly glazed 
advertisements of fashionable or would-be fashionable, 
newly discovered or long-established health-resorts, Aus- 
trian, German, and French. Presently something about 
one of the glazed pictures seemed to have arrested Sir 
Gilbert’s attention. He stood for a minute immovable, 
frowning intently at the representation of an elaborate 
Ctirhaus flanked with broad terraces and mirrored in a 
preternaturally glassy lake. Had the flourish regarding 
the ‘ideal situation’ and the ‘peculiarly health-giving’ 
quality of the air at Valerie Baden snared another victim, 
or was it the promise of the ‘ elegantly appointed Table 
a' hole ’ and the ‘ musical promenade ’ every evening which 
had captivated Sir Gilbert’s fancy ? 

He turned abruptly from the wall and walked straight 
back to the window. 

‘ Never mind about those figures,’ he broke in upon the 
sotto voce calculation, ^ I’ve changed my mind. Give me a 
ticket for Valerie Bad.’ 


OPHELIA. 


163 


Half an hour later the express was rushing fiery-eyed 
over the plain. The train was pretty full, for this was the 
moment when roaming summer-birds are on the wing to- 
wards the winter warmth of their nests. The smoking 
compartments were crowded, suffocating, and noisy. 
Nevertheless in the noisiest and fullest there sat one man 
who was neither smoking nor talking, but who leant back 
in his corner, his arms folded, his travelling-cap drawn 
deep over his eyes. His five fellow-travellers, who had 
reached the stage of exchanging cigars, never doubted that 
he was asleep. But though his head was bent and his 
eyes closed, Gilbert Nevyll was as wide awake as any of 
these noisy youngsters ; intensely wide awake and fever- 
ishly busy. He also, like Ulrica, was seeking to regain 
the ground under his feet ; he also, as Ulrica had done, 
was attempting to reconstruct his own individuality after 
the shock from which he had barely escaped. He had 
lost himself and must find himself again. And it was by 
the light of the past that he hoped to find himself — of the 
past as it had been before this bewildering present began. 

Every moment of crisis has the faculty of rousing mem- 
ory to an intense degree. Gilbert Nevyll had reached a 
crisis, or, more strictly speaking, he was going forward to 
meet one, was rushing towards it over the plain, at the rate 
of thirty miles an hour ; what wonder, therefore, that far-off 
recollections should start up to confront him, that the 
sparks which flew past the window should appear like 
ghostly torches throwing their searching light into the 
secret recesses of his mind, and that each throb of the 
engine, instead of carrying him forwards over the plain, 
seemed to be bearing him backwards into the long buried 
past ? Back, back, back, — he could hear the very word as 
it quivered in the air, — back over these autumn months, 
back to the time when the spell of the fir-clad valley had 
not yet fallen upon him ; back, yet further back, to the 
long and empty years which had gone before, — back to 
the moment when the great mistake of his life had been 
made. 

How had the mistake come to be made? Given his 
individuality and given his circumstances, it had been 


164 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

all but unavoidable. In the first place, he was rich, in 
the second place he was not happy — two terribly dan- 
gerous positions for a mamageable man to be in. It 
is only stretching a point very little to say that he was 
not happy precisely because he was rich. Great wealth 
is a burden which only a very thick-skinned or a very 
apathetic nature can bear without flinching. Brought up 
as he had been in the traditions of a house more remarka- 
ble for its ambitious pursuit of power than for any ideal 
yearnings for the bettering of mankind, surrounded, more- 
over, by flatterers from his earliest childhood, it was indeed 
hard to say how that spark of philanthropy had come to 
live within him. It could only be one of those freaks in 
which nature occasionally indulges. Gilbert himself was 
far too well aware of its incongruity not to keep its exist- 
ence anxiously concealed, even from himself, so far as that 
was possible. In the world in which he lived there was 
no room for such ideas, and there would be no response 
to them — of that he felt instinctively certain. 

- ^\re you ever worried by the question as to how many 
dozen people die of starvation in London every day ? ’ 
he once asked a young marquis of his acquaintance, upon 
some sudden impulse. 

They were lunching at their club together, and the 
young marquis was in the act of carrying a morsel of very 
exquisitely prepared poulet a la Marengo to his lips. At 
Gilbert’s question he stopped, opened-mouthed, the morsel 
poised in midair. 

‘ Never,’ he said, in the most convincing of tones, when 
he had recovered himself sufficiently. ‘ Do you ever feel 
that way ? ’ 

‘ Not often ; only when my digestion is out of order.’ 

‘ My dear fellow,’ said the other anxiously, for he was a 
good-natured young man and fond of Gilbert, ‘ you mustn’t 
neglect your digestion. Hadn’t you better see Blacker ? ’ 

‘ Perhaps I had better,’ agreed Gilbert, without moving a 
muscle of his face. 

‘ And in the meantime do what you can to keep up your 
spirits. I was just on the point of asking you whether 
you’d let me drive you down to Hurlingham, when you 


OPHELIA. 


165 

took away my breath with that uncomfortable question. 
They’ve got a splendid new lot of pigeons, and Captain 
Atherton is to make his first show on the polo-ground since 
the smash of his thigh- bone. You’ll come, won’t you?’ 

‘ Oh yes. I’ll come,’ said Gilbert, tossing off his claret. 

And accordingly he went, and saw innumerable pigeons 
butchered, and saw two ponies lamed on the polo-ground, 
and was smiled at by countless young ladies in lovely sum- 
mer dresses ; and once more the fact was forced upon him 
that he was a fortunate among the fortunates. and a fool 
not to enjoy life as it came. Once or twice he attempted 
to rise to the height on which Nature had destined him to 
stand, but the enervating atmosphere in which he lived 
was too much for him ; his foot slipped on the first obstacle 
it encountered, the million clinging threads which grew as 
rank as weeds from out of the great society swamp clasped 
themselves about him and drew him downwards, choking 
vapours rose up to stifle his breath and bewilder his eyes, 
and after a brief struggle he would sink back again into in- 
action. It was not that energy was wanting in his nature, but 
that he belonged to that order of men whose susceptibility 
to feminine influence is of the extreme sort, and whose lives 
will be either a great failure or a great success according 
to whether they fall into the hands of the right or the 
wrong woman. Such men — and they are by no means 
the least manly men — without the right influence will al- 
ways remain incomplete, their character undeveloped or 
one-sided, their whole individuality unfinished. And this 
comes not from a lack of strength, but rather from a certain 
ultra-masculine unwieldiness which requires the light and 
cunning touch of a woman’s hand to set the machinery in 
motion. 

So perfectly aware was Gilbert of this want in his nature 
that he was forever searching London drawing-rooms on 
the look-out for that ‘ right woman ’ who was to enable 
him to become quite a man. Once or twice he believed 
himself to be on the right track ; it was quite astonishing 
to find how many young ladies were ready to enter with 
interest into the discussion of such themes as the bettering 
of lodging-houses in the East-end of London. But hither- 


l66 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

tc the heir to eighty thousand a year had always discovered 
in time that it was a form of flirtation. 

At last there came a moment when it seemed as though 
he had verily found her. He was still almost boyish in 
years, though not far from middle-aged in experience, 
when one hot June evening, his gaze, roaming listlessly 
around a crowded ball-room, fell upon a slight girlish fig- 
ure swathed in floating draperies of watery blue. The 
pale, golden hair lay around the white forehead in a half- 
transparent haze, the slender neck was slightly drooped, 
and the delicate fingers played with the tangle of water-lilies 
which nestled at the side of her skirt. One white water- 
lily shone like a star in her hair, and — was it the water- 
lilies or was it the wistful gaze of her sad blue eyes ? — ^but 
to Gilbert Nevyll she appeared the most ideal embodiment 
of an Ophelia that he had ever seen off the boards of any 
London or continental theatre. Perhaps ‘poetical’ was 
the adjective to apply to her rather than ‘ beautiful.’ Her 
beauty, at any rate, was of too delicate a sort to appear to 
full advantage in gas-light. She appeared to droop in the 
glare, to shrink before the noise around her. Her eyes 
were her most remarkable feature, not for one moment to 
be confounded with the many other pairs of blue eyes in 
the room, dark or light, dreamy or mischievous, sparkling 
or sober. These eyes were supremely sad, and it was their 
sadness which was their charm. Once having met their 
gaze, Gilbert was haunted by them ; he had never seen eyes 
so young look so heart-rendingly sad before, certainly not 
in a ball-room. She sat quite still in her neglected corner, 
by the side of an insignificant-looking chaperon. From 
the appearance of the chapero.i, as well as from the isola- 
tion of the pair, Gilbert easily concluded that they were 
nobodies. Could it be the want of partners alone which 
had lent that pathetic depth to those blue eyes opposite ? 
Gilbert’s curiosity was aroused ; he felt that he wished to 
clear up the point, and following that impulse which draws 
unwary man blindly towards his fate, he left his place and 
sought an introduction. 

As he had surmised, Ophelia was nobody, merely a 
nameless little country Miss enjoying a brief outing in Lon- 


OPHELIA. 


167 


don. She was penniless as well as nameless. Had he 
been more given to scanning details, Gilbert might have 
guessed this much for himself ; for instance, he might have 
observed — what to a feminine eye would have been unmis- 
takable — that the water-lilies which shed such a poetical 
glamour over Miss Dickson’s appearance had done duty 
more than once. 

Ophelia, whose name, by-the-bye, was Charlotte, did not 
‘ gush ’ as the other philanthropical young ladies had done, 
she did not work herself up into a ‘ state ’ upon any of the 
subjects upon which, in the progress of their acquaintance, 
Gilbert somewhat diffidently and tentatively touched ; she 
only sat and listened almost silently, dropping a musical 
monosyllable now and then, and letting her wistful blue eyes 
do the rest for her. And they did their work so well, and 
with such remarkable rapidity, that before the first week of 
the London outing was over it had become the chief in- 
terest of Gilbert Nevyll’s life to note the joyous lighting 
up of their azure depths which his approach invariably 
called forth. There lay an infinite charm in this momen- 
tary lifting of the cloud, and the mute homage which it 
seemed to imply appeared to him infinitely touching. 
He married her, never doubting that he had found not 
only a kindred spirit, but also that he was loved. 

And then slowly, slowly came the discovery. He 
had married a beautiful image. There was absolutely 
nothing behind the blue eyes ; they were a mere accident, 
of which her woman’s wit had taught her to make the most. 
Their wonderful depth they owed purely to physical 
causes ; that overpowering sadness which had taken his 
pity by storm was no sadness at all, but only a result of 
the expansive properties of the pupil and the mixture of 
the colouring-matter, partly also the curve of the eyelashes. 
It was not a question of soul and of feeling, only a ques- 
tion of angles and of lines. 

For a time he loyally strove to believe that though she was 
not the woman he had taken her to be, she yet loved him as 
far as it lay in her nature to love ; but this hope also had to 
be abandoned reluctantly yet definitively. The little country 
Miss had caught him according to all the rules of the game. 


l68 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

It was from the moment of this discovery that Gilbert 
became an embittered man. This had been the death- 
blow to all the healthy ambition within him. The marriage 
was childless — a further disappointment. The affection 
which had sprung to such sudden life within him withered 
as suddenly, starved to death on the rocky soil. 

Within the first three years of their marriage the young 
couple had become completely estranged. Whether Gil- 
bert was entirely blameless, who can say ? Even beautiful 
images and even women who make ambitious marriages 
have sometimes got hearts, but these hearts require to be 
awakened. Be that as it may, Gilbert did not apply him- 
self to the task, but in the reaction of his disappointment 
plunged back into the whirlpool of the life from which he 
had thought to escape. 

They did not separate, there was no need for that; 
both Morton Hall and the London house were big enough 
to enable Sir Gilbert and Lady Nevyll to go their own 
ways and to live their own lives without troubling each 
other. For years past the only moments which they spent 
in each other’s society had been in public ; if she had a 
fancy for Paris, he generally found it more convenient to 
go to Boulogne ; when he went down to Scotland for the 
1 2 th, she took the opportunity of paying visits in the south 
of England. They played no part in each other’s lives — 
she bore his name, and he paid her bills, that was about 
all. 

This then was the ‘ sad story,’ as he himself had called 
it. Not tragical, perhaps, or belonging at any rate to a 
very every-day order of tragedy, but sad, indeed, beyond 
all hope. It was with this past at his back that he first 
looked into Ulrica Eldringen’s face on the September 
evening on which he set foot within the Marienhof. He 
had never intentionally suppressed the fact of his wife’s 
existence. It was with no purpose in his mind that he 
omitted all mention of her in his letters, it was simply that 
she stood outside his thoughts. She did not colour one 
inch of his existence. Not till the intercourse between him 
and his CQusin had begun to deepen in interest did he 
realise that Ulrica believed him to be unmarried. By this 


THE LAST CHANCE. 


169 


time the spell was strong upon him ; he had reached that 
dreamy stage when clear thought becomes a burden. In- 
distinctly only had be been conscious of a reluctance to 
mention the name of his wife just now. That word once 
pronounced, some change would be worked which he 
dreaded. 

He had awakened only in time to see the abyss at his 
feet. Another step and he would have been over the edge. 
The only hope was to turn and fly. 

In the first instant of reaction it had seemed that it was 
no matter in which direction he fled, so long as he left the 
dangerous ground. The chance sight of one of the glazed 
pictures beside the ticket-office of the station, coupled with 
a sudden recollection, had given a distinct direction as 
well as a distinct object to this flight. 

As the express rattled and roared over the plain, it was 
not of Glockenau that Gilbert Nevyll was thinking, but of 
Valerie Bad. He was looking forward, not backward. 
His thoughts were not bent upon a parting scene ; rather 
they leapt onward to picture the scene of meeting, on which 
he knew that his last desperate hope was staked. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

THE LAST CHANCE. 

The glazed picture at the railway station proved to 
have been a somewhat flattered portrait of Valerie Bad. 
The Curhaus was there, it is true, and so were the terraces 
and so was the lake, but the former were not nearly so 
broad nor the latter so glassy as their counterfeits on paper 
would have led one to suppose. This, at any rate, was Sir 
Gilbert’s indistinct impression as he approached the ter- 
raced building ; or was it only the heavy autumn mist and 
the yellowing trees in the Curhaus gardens which made 
such a dismal setting to the picture f Great drops of wet 
stood upon the fallen leaves which had been swept into 


170 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

heaps upon the deserted walks ; the greater number of the 
benches had been removed, some of the flower-beds were 
being covered up with fir-branches. Besides the gardeners 
at work, Sir Gilbert caught sight of only one solitary old 
gentleman taking a constitutional morning stroll along a 
distant gravel-walk. He scanned the building itself ; the 
shutters of nearly half the windows were closed. 

‘ She may be gone,’ he said to himself, with a thrill which 
was as much hope as fear. 

‘Lady Nevyll?’ repeated the porter, in answer to his 
query, and he turned slowly and meditatively to a ledger 
by his side. Not that he could not have answered the 
question without any such reference, but an appearance of 
doubt accorded better with the dignity of the establish- 
ment, and gave the impression that visitors of the order of 
Lady Nevyll formed the bulk of the Valerie Bad habitues. 

Sir Gilbert stood by and gnawed his under lip while the 
man’s fat forefinger travelled down the page. A devour- 
ing impatience had taken possession of him, he wanted to 
know his fate at once. 

At the end of a minute the porter looked up. ‘ Forty- 
five to Fifty,’ he remarked, closing the ledger with a bang. 

‘Thanlcs. Oh, I’ll find my way, don’t trouble.’ 

‘ If the monsieur will wait one minute — ’ 

But Sir Gilbert had already turned and was half-way up 
the staircase. 

‘ He must be her lover, surely,’ reflected the fat porter, 
staring with round eyes after the impetuous stranger ; ‘ and 
yet he’s run it pretty close. Two days more and he 
would have missed her.’ 

Forty-five to Fifty were among the best apartments of 
the Curhaiis. They were situated on the first floor close 
by the principal staircase, so that Sir Gilbert had not much 
of a voyage of discovery before him. At the door he 
paused for one instant and drew his hand slowly across his 
eyes. Then, rousing himself, he rapped loudly. 

There was a moment’s silence, followed by a somewhat 
astonished : ‘ Come in.’ 

Lady Nevyll, in a morning robe, was reclining on a 
sofa. Breakfast was served on a table by her side, but it 


THE LAST CHANCE. 


171 

was not the breakfast with which at present her attention 
was occupied. A choice of papers and periodicals littered 
the sofa and the chairs beside her ; some of them were 
flung down open on their faces, others had evidently not 
yet been touched by the paper-knife. Over one of the 
chairbacks there hung a stripe of coloured embroidery with 
the needle sticking in it ; on the writing-desk at her elbow 
a half-written letter lay open on the blotting-pad. Alto- 
gether it appeared that, young though the day was, her 
ladyship had already been bending her mind in various 
directions. She was so placed that though her back was 
half turned towards the door, the person entering caught 
her full image in the mirror opposite. Sir Gilbert, having 
closed the door behind him, paused for an instant and 
looked hard into this mirror. He gazed eagerly, keenly, 
like a man who is determined to find there what he scarcely 
dares to hope for. 

What he saw was but a faint, a very faint image of that 
poetical vision which had taken his fancy by storm on 
that hot June evening eighteen years ago. Charlotte 
Nevyll’s beauty belonged to a type which has great difiiculty 
gracefully to submit to middle-age. An Ophelia past her 
first youth is indeed as hard to imagine as a water-lily 
growing on dry land. This species of flower requires to 
be gathered with the dew still fresh upon it. No Ophelia 
should live long enough to let the cares of life brush the 
bloom from her cheek, or dig crow’s-feet about her eyes. 
To come up to the standard of artistic perfection expected 
of her she ought to die young. If she prefers to survive, 
it is on her own responsibility and at the sacrifice of the 
ideal. What eighteen years ago had been bewitching 
slenderness now came dangerously near to deserving the 
adjective meagre ; the once so exquisite pallor had become 
tinged with a shade of sallowness ; the golden haze of hair 
no longer lay so softly, nor so thickly, nor yet with such a 
golden glow around the temples. With all this. Lady 
Nevyll could still lay claim to the title of an ‘interesting 
woman ’ ; perhaps she could have laid claim to more, had 
she been set out to fuller advantage, for this class of good 
looks is peculiarly dependent upon its accessories. Her 


172 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

face was a wreck, no doubt, but still it was the wreck oi 
what had once been beauty, and many women, with less 
material at their command would have contrived to be ad- 
mired, even at thirty-eight. But whether it was a want of 
judgment or whether it was indifference or negligence, 
there could be no doubt that Lady Nevyll was not, in the 
vulgar phrase, ‘ made the most of.’ Her moming-gown, 
though made of an expensive material, was carelessly put 
on, betraying in the set of the ruffles or the turn of the 
bows none of those little touches of .coquetry which pro- 
claim the woman who is anxious to appear her best. Her 
hair was unbecomingly dressed, her lace cap was of a 
shape which made her appear older than she was. 

The feature about her which had altered the least were 
the eyes ; they were as wonderfully blue now as they had 
been when they ensnared Gilbert Nevyll and caused him 
to stumble headlong into the pitfall of their seemingly bot- 
tomless depth, but the difference was that whereas then 
their gaze had been wistful it now betrayed nothing but a 
somewhat helpless discontent. 

As Sir Gilbert entered. Lady Nevyll flung aside one 
magazine and took up another. ‘ I did not ring,’ she re- 
marked, in that low musical voice which, next to her eyes, 
had perhaps been her greatest charm, and without taking 
the trouble to turn her head. 

The silence appeared to strike her ; she looked up and saw 
her husband in the glass, as he stood motionless two steps 
from the sofa. The book half dropped from her hand. 

‘ Gilbert, you here % ’ she exclaimed, in a tone which be- 
trayed nothing but the most complete astonishment, as she 
turned to face him. 

‘Yes, I here; it is queer, isn’t it?’ said Gilbert, with a 
sudden nervous laugh. ‘ The most unlikely place in the 
world for me to be at, I admit.’ 

‘ But I thought you were — let me see, where did I think 
you were? Were you not shooting chamois somewhere?’ 

‘ So I was, but I have been to other places since, the 
most extraordinary places, and I have had the most ex- 
traordinary adventures. Would you like to hear about 
them ? ’ 


THE LAST CHANCE. 


173 


Lady Nevyll did not answer at once. She was staring 
at her husband in bewilderment. He spoke fast and ex- 
citedly ; his tumbled hair and disarranged necktie gave a 
touch of recklessness to his appearance. It was evident 
that he had travelled far, and it was evident, too, that he 
had come to her room straight from the railway. 

‘ I don’t understand,’ she remarked at last. ‘ Has any- 
thing particular happened ? ’ 

‘Nothing that you would call very particular, I sup- 
pose.’ 

‘ Have you brought me any news? ’ 

‘ News ? Oh no ; it is all as old as the hills.’ 

‘ Then what on earth have you come to do here ? ’ 

‘ I — I, well, I have come to see you,’ said Sir Gilbert, 
with strange awkwardness. ‘ You see I was on the point 
of starting home when it occurred to me that probably 
you had not yet left Valerie Bad, and I thought I might 
as well make the run round and see whether you were 
packing up, and whether — ’ 

‘ Well ? ’ with a triple point of interrogation. 

‘ Whether you were inclined to let me accompany you 
home. Why do you look so astonished, Charlotte ? 
Surely there is nothing peculiar in the proposal ? ’ 

‘It is by far the most peculiar thing that has happened 
since we were married.’ 

Lady Nevyll leant back again among her cushions. 
She had recovered her self-possession sufficiently to speak 
in her usual tone of chilly languor. There was something 
at the same time dispirited and dispiriting about the trailed- 
out accents. 

Sir Gilbert appeared not to have heard. 

‘ And, as matters stand, it seems that I have come only 
just in time,’ he went on, talking with a strained attempt 
at gaiety. ‘ That trunk in the corner looks like business. 
When do you start ? ’ 

‘ I start on Wednesday.’ 

‘Two days; well, I suppose you will manage to endure 
my society for that length of time — I promise to do my 
best. Let me begin by entertaining you at breakfast with 
my chamois adventures. You don’t seem to have done half 


174 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

justice to this delicious looking coffee, and to these most 
inviting rolls. By-the-bye, it occurs to me that I haven’t 
breakfasted yet. I suppose I may ring for another cup ? 
How often is it for the waiter ? Once ? Twice ? Thrice ? ’ 
He touched the bell without waiting for her answer. Lady 
Nevyll, lost in wonder - at the strange demeanour of her 
husband, watched him silently from the depth of her sofa 
cushions. The whole thing was absolutely unprecedented 
in her experience. 

The second cup promptly appeared, and Sir Gilbert, still 
talking spasmodically, began to pour out the coffee. 

‘ This is really not half so bad for an hotel room,’ he re- 
marked, as he drew a chair. to the table. ‘The dark wall- 
paper makes it almost homelike. It is not unlike the wall- 
paper in the Morton dining-room. By the way, what are 
your plans for the winter ? Don’t you think,’ he spoke al- 
most diffidently, ‘that we might try a winter at Morton 
for a change ? ’ 

‘ I am probably going to Florence,’ said Lady Nevyll, 
slowly sipping her coffee. 

‘Florence? Yes, to be sure, your cough; Morton 
would be rather trying.’ 

He looked at her steadily for a minute. 

‘ You are not looking well,’ he remarked abruptly. 

The delicate eyebrows went up. ‘ I have not known 
my looks to concern you for at least fifteen years.’ 

‘You look pale,’ he persisted. 

‘ Thanks, I am as well as I ever am.’ 

‘ Then perhaps it is that colour that does not suit you.’ 

He spoke discontentedly, almost with a touch of irrita- 
tion. The dressing-gown and the cap provoked him. In 
a vague way he realised that they were unbecoming, and 
that the fact of their being unbecoming made the task he 
had before him more hopelessly difficult. Charlotte should 
have appeared at her very best this morning. The search- 
ing gaze which he fixed on her face had nothing of the 
critical in it, it was not scanning the ravages which time 
had worked upon that once so exquisite countenance; 
rather, it was attempting to gather together the fragments 
of a beauty which, for however brief a space, had yet held 


THE LAST CHANCE. 


175 


complete possession of his senses. With all his might he 
was striving to inflame his imagination by the light of 
memory. ‘ Her eyes are beautiful still/ he said to himself, 
with a curious sort of doggedness. 

' Why do you never wear pale blue, Charlotte 1 ’ he 
asked aloud. ' It suits you best. You wore pale blue on 
the evening when I first saw you,’ he hurriedly added. 

" Good gracious, Gilbert, you are not going to become 
sentimental, are you ? Whatever you do, please spare me 
reminiscences.’ 

Sir Gilbert dropped his coifee-spoon with a clatter and 
rose from his chair. 

‘ No, let us have no reminiscences,’ he said, in an altered 
tone. ‘ I don’t want to speak of the past, but of the 
future. You wanted to know what I have come for — I 
have come to ask you whether we might not yet make a 
new beginning.’ 

‘What are you talking about? A new beginning to 
what ? ’ 

‘ A new beginning to our lives, Charlotte ; a fresh start ; 
do you think it is too late for that ? I have been thinking 
over it, and look here, I do believe that it might yet be 
time. We are not so very old yet ; why should we not 
get to understand each other a little better than we have 
hitherto done ? We might try, Charlotte, do you not think 
so?’ 

He spoke eagerly, hurriedly, almost stumbling over his 
words, with burning eyes and dry lips. 

Lady Nevyll burst into a hysterical laugh. 

‘ Really, Gilbert, this is becoming almost entertaining. 
I always knew that you were eccentric, but I never ex- 
pected your eccentricity to take quite such an unlikely 
shape as this.’ 

Sir Gilbert coloured violently. He seemed about to 
make some quick retort, but checked himself, and spoke 
after a minute in a measured, patient tone, as though he 
were painfully schooling himself to calmness. 

‘ I know, yes ; of course, it must be very astonishing to 
you ; that is only natural. I cannot expect you to enter 
into my ideas so quickly. You know nothing — that is to 
12 


176 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. • 


say, it would be no use explaining. We have drifted so 
far apart that of course we cannot get to understand each 
other in a minute.’ 

‘ No, particularly as we have spent eighteen years in 
not understanding each other. Do you know, Gilbert, it 
is really very lucky that there are no English in the hotel ? 
If you were seen in this frame of mind you might be sus- 
pected of wishing to make love to your wife, and that, of 
course, would be fatal to your London reputation.’ 

The flush on Sir Gilbert’s forehead deepened. 

‘ I know, I know, yes, I have given you the right to 
reproach rhe, Charlotte. I am ready to take all the blame 
on myself for the miserable estrangement between us. I 
was impatient and disappointed because you did not im- 
mediately enter into my ideas, because you were not — not 
exactly as I had taken it into my head that you must be — ’ 

‘ Why do you not say at once, because you discovered 
that I had not mamed you for your own sake ? ’ 

‘ Charlotte, why will you put words into my mouth 
which were never there ? Have I not told you that I re- 
proach you with nothing ? I daresay it was all my fault. 
But I am ready to begin again, if only you will let me. It 
can all be altered yet.’ 

‘ I see no need for any alteration,’ said Lady Nevyll, in- 
differently. ‘ Things do very well as they are.’ 

Sir Gilbert pressed one hand hard within the other. 

* Charlotte, can nothing move you ? Do you not see 
that for me this is terribly serious ? Only have a little pa- 
tience ; we have forgotten that we had meant to live for 
each other ; but it will come back, with a little patience it 
will come back. What do you say, Chattie — shall we 
try?’ 

He had not called her ‘ Chattie ’ for close upon eighteen 
years. The word came strangely and uncertainly from his 
lips now ; in the very fall of the syllables it betrayed that 
it had long lain unused. 

‘How can it come back,’ said Lady Nevyll slowly, 
‘ since it has never been ? ’ 

‘ Charlotte, you are wronging us both ; I swear that I 
loved you when I made you my wife.’ 


THE LAST CHANCE. 1 77 

She shrugged her shoulders, and cut open another page 
of the periodical beside her. 

‘ And if our love died out so quickly — ’ 

‘ Our love ? ’ she repeated, with a soft laugh. 

‘ Yes, yes, let me speak ; let me say what I have to say. 
You may not have loved me as I loved you; but I cannot 
think otherwise ; I will believe that I was something to 
you in those days. It did not last long, perhaps — perhaps 
you; too, were disappointed ; but you meant to make me 
happy; you believed you could do so. I wasted my 
chance then, but now, Charlotte, now I want you to try 
again. I will trust you, I will believe in you; only be 
merciful and save me from myself.’ 

He approached the sofa while he spoke, and now bent 
over her, holding her cold white hand between his hot and 
throbbing palms. It seemed as though the fire must pass 
from him to her. But the long slender fingers remained 
like ice. The moment that his grasp relaxed the hand fell 
back on the cushion lifeless and inert. He knelt down be- 
side the sofa and would have clasped his arms around her, 
but at their first touch she shivered and shrank back with 
a look that bordered on aversion. 

‘ This is too much,’ she said, her voice hoarse with sud- 
den excitement. ‘ What has put this freak into your head 
I do not know ; but it is not one that I shall submit to. I 
suppose you are tired of amusing yourself and would like 
me to amuse you for a change.’ 

He rose to his feet with a sigh. 

‘ You have no heart,’ he said brokenly. 

‘ Do you think so ? Well, you shall hear the truth ; it 
needs the truth to convince you. I have a heart, but it 
belongs — not to you.’ 

‘ Charlotte,’ he said sternly, ‘ take care what you are say- 
ing. You do not know what you are driving me to.’ 

‘ It is I who must speak now,’ panted Charlotte, sitting 
upright on the sofa, her thin hand nervously clutching the 
tableredge. ‘It must be said at last. You insist on be- 
lieving that you were something to me at that time, eighteen 
years ago. Well, have your will ; you were something to 
me ; you were the wealthy Sir Gilbert Nevyll, and for this 


178 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

reason — only for this reason — did I become your wife. I 
perjured myself — listen to this — I perjured myself when I 
swore to you, for I already loved another man, a man who 
was too poor and too ambitious to marry me, and whom 
I was too poor and too ambitious to marry. And listen, 
Gilbert,’ and now her blue eyes caught fire, ‘ I love him 
still. My heart was his then, and it is his now. It never 
was yours — never for one moment. I married your riches, 
not you. I believed they would be a substitute for I'ove, 
and from the moment that I discovered they were not, I 
hated you because of my mistake. I thought it would be 
a great thing to be the wife of a man with a title and with 
such a fortune, and to be the mother of his heir ; but it 
was all a mistake; neither the title nor the fortune made 
up to me for the love I had renounced. I was not happy, 
and I had no child ; it was all a failure, a wretched failure 
from beginning to end.’ 

The overstrained voice broke and the nervous grasp of 
the hand on the table-edge relaxed, as Lady Nevyll sank 
back among the cushions. The passionate outburst had 
ended in a flood of tears. 

Sir Gilbert stood for a minute longer rigid beside the 
table. His pride had been wounded to the core, but the 
feeling of astonishment was greater than that of pain. 
Like a veil it fell from before his eyes. For eighteen years 
he had believed his wife to be a feeble, shallow, harmless, 
though selfish nonentity, as indifferent to his existence as 
he had long since become to hers. It was only in the 
minute when she started up to confront him, with her thin 
hand outstretched, and her sunken blue eyes blazing with 
a long-suppressed, never suspected hatred, that, as in a 
flash, he saw the true woman. 

She had hated him all along ; he understood that per- 
fectly now. She had only not told him so, partly because 
it was too much trouble, and partly because he had never 
before attempted to force himself upon her. She was at,- 
the same time infinitely more important and infinitely .more 
base than he had ever guessed. He was still listening to 
her words when already there rose up a contrasting image 
in his mind, and mercilessly he confronted the two pictures 


THE LAST CHANCE. 


179 


• — the woman who was hurling into his face the assurance 
that she had sold herself to him, and that other woman, 
whose pride stood so unflinchingly between him and her 
poverty, that he, the almighty millionaire, was powerless be- 
fore her. Greater and stronger far the treachery of the 
creature before him, more womanly and more pure did 
Ulrica’s image in this moment stand out in his soul. 

‘ That will do,’ he said after a time, in a tone from which 
all eagerness had died out. ' I think we understand each 
other perfectly now. It is just as well ; it will avert all mis- 
takes in the future. I regret having upset you thus need- 
lessly. What is it that you are looking for ? Your handker- 
chief? Shall I ring for your maid, or do you object to 
being seen with red eyelids ? Oh, here it is on the ground ! ’ 

He handed it to her and walked to the window. The 
sight of Charlotte, half buried in her cushions and groping 
about for the missing handkerchief, produced in him a feel- 
ing of irritation. It was but a short time since that he had 
gazed on toil-worn hands and marked the throb of stern 
physical exertion. He turned from the window and walked 
to the table where he had laid his hat. 

Lady Nevyll was lying with her face hidden in the 
cushions, weak as water after that unwonted flash of energy. 
Her energy was of the sort which never comes except in 
flashes — a sort which bums out more quickly than a fire- 
work. She could not be passionate except at the cost of 
great mental exhaustion. In all likelihood it would take 
her several days to recover the* outlay of vitality which 
these last five minutes had required of her. 

‘ Good-bye,’ said Gilbert harshly, ‘I am going. You 
need not fear to be troubled again for the present, perhaps 
never again. I do not think I shall return to England just 
now, so don’t allow your movements to be tied. Shall I 
send you your maid ? ’ 

There was no answer, and she made no movement. He 
threw one more glance at the reclining figure, a cold, al- 
most a contemptuous glance, then, without a further word, 
he gathered up his hat and gloves. 

In the next minute he had closed the door of No. 45 
behind him. 


i8o 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

A SECOND PARTING. 

It was the close of a wet, dark day, and Ulrica sat alone 
in the Stube of the Marienhof. She had finished her sup- 
per and pushed her plate aside. In the usual course of 
things the table would have been already cleared, and Ul- 
rica herself would have been seated on the Ofenbank^ busy 
with some piece of mending ; but to-day her energy seemed 
to have flagged. Her arms lay inactive in her lap, her 
great grey eyes stared straight in front of her, full of a 
shadowy gloom. One solitary tallow candle in a pewter 
candlestick burned on the table, flickering fitfully in the 
draught, for it was a gusty evening, and the windows of 
the old house closed but imperfectly. The unstable light 
threw exaggerated black shadows upon the whitewash of 
the wall. The milk-jug which stood on the table reap- 
peared there in the shape of a gigantic pitcher, swaying 
from side to side with the leaping of the flames ; close be- 
side it a big black blotch loomed unsteadily — it was the 
shadow of Ulrica’s knitting-ball, which lay unheeded by 
her hand. Ulrica’s own profile, with the silk handkerchief 
binding her forehead, covered about half the wall, like 
some grotesque and gigantic silhouette. 

Outside the narrow circle of light everything was indis- 
tinct ; the corners of the room and the angles in the rafter 
ceiling overhead were black as pitch. The big green stove 
in the comer was only to be distinguished as a block, and, 
with the red embers still glowing within it, might almost 
have stood for the portrait of some fabulous monster with 
one single fiery eye. Now and then a gust of wind came 
down the chimney, and then the monster seemed to be 
gurgling or groaning or even sobbing, and the fiery eye 
would gleam more fiercely for an instant and would then 
grow suddenly feeble. Once or twice at the sound behind 
her Ulrica looked over her shoulder with a start. Though 
she sat so still, her eyes betrayed a restlessness which in 


A SECOND PARTING. 


l8l 


general was foreign to her nature. She had passed several 
hundred evenings thus alone in the old house, and she 
knew by heart all the sounds which the wind was wont to 
make about the roof and about the eaves, how it would 
moan along the balcony overhead and rattle at the half- 
rotten window-shutters ; but never until to-night had any- 
thing like fear come near her. Her heart beat with a 
strange expectation of something that was to come to pass. 

It was scarcely ten minutes since the familiar rumble had 
passed her window, and the valley had echoed to the trara 
of the postilion’s horn. That had been the last sound 
which could not be ascribed to the wind, and it was from 
the moment that the last note had died away among the 
hills that this fit of restlessness had grown acute, she could 
not have said why. Yesterday, too, and the day before, 
she had felt uneasy, but the strain had not been so intense 
as to-night. These taps on the window — she knew that it 
was only the long tendrils of the withered vine being blown 
against the pane, and yet she could not forbear to glance 
fearfully in that direction ; those pattering sounds on the 
gravel — they could only be the falling leaves, heavy with 
wet; why, then, these sudden chills of terror which ever 
and again rushed over her ? 

‘ This is absurd ! ’ she said at last, speaking aloud ; ‘ I 
must be out of sorts. Why, I used to go into a dark room 
when I was eight years old, without thinking twice about 
it. It must be those noises, but I needn’t listen to them.’ 

She began to sing, taking up her knitting at the same 
time. It was a Volkslied which had come into her head. 

'Seht I hr die Rosse vor dem Wagen^ 

Und diesen jungen Postilion ? * 

She had not got through the first verse when she broke 
off and laid down her knitting. She had just remembered 
that the door was not bolted for the night, and though 
there were no robbers at Glockenau, an unbolted door 
always remains an uncomfortable thing. She rose and 
went towards it, then with a sudden shiver of fear she stood 
still and seemed to be listening. Was that indeed only the 
fall of the wet leaves ? 


i 82 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


‘ Who is there ? ’ she called out sharply, then held her 
breath and listened again. 

The door was pushed open and a man came in and 
walked straight towards her. Before he had even reached 
the circle of light she knew quite well that it was Gilbert 
Nevyll. It- could be no one else. Her heart gave one 
fierce bound of delight, then stood still, stabbed by a mor- 
tal pain. It took him only a few seconds to traverse the 
space of floor which divided them and to stand before her, 
and during these seconds their eyes were full upon each 
other. 

‘You should not have come back,’ said Ulrica, after a 
long, breathless pause, during which, without speaking, he 
had looked into her face. 

There was no attempt this time to take up the farce at 
the point where it had been dropped only two days ago. 
The comedy of friendship was played out. There was no 
pretence made on either side to misunderstand the situation. 
Sir Gilbert, on entering, had not held out his hand in the 
conventional manner, and Ulrica had uttered no conven- 
tional greeting. She knew now that she had all along been 
expecting this to happen. That nervous restlessness which 
had tormented her all the evening died out in an instant. 

‘ You knew that I would come,’ he said ; ‘ you knew that 
we had not parted forever when I said good-bye to you 
the other day ; it was impossible that that should be our 
parting ; you knew it, Ulrica ! ’ 

‘ It was cruel of you to come,’ she answered proudly, 
evading his glance. 

‘Not so cruel as Fate has been to us. It weighed on 
me like a burden ; it broke my will ; I had to come back 
to tell you — that which you know already. It must be said 
between us in so many plain words. I love you, Ulrica, 
you alone of all women in the world.’ 

‘ And is it because I am alone in the world,’ said Ulrica, 
with quivering lip, ‘ that you think you have the right to 
tell me so ? ’ 

‘Whether you are alone or not alone would make no 
difference. I scarcely thought of that ; I did not stop to 
question myself as to whether this was the correct thing to 


A SECOND PARTING. 1 83 

do ; I only knew that it had to be done. Listen, Ulrica, 
there is much that I must tell you.’ 

‘Tell me nothing; I do not want to hear; I will not 
listen.’ 

‘Yes, you will listen,’ said Sir Gilbert, with a curious icy 
quiet which beat down her resistance before it had well 
sprung into existence. 

‘ Everything must be made clear between us. There 
must be no more of that ghastly nonsense of the other day. 
We did our best, but I think we are both at the end of our 
strength. A farce of that sort is unworthy of you and un- 
worthy of me. Ulrica, I am going to tell you the story of 
my life.’ 

Ulrica had moved back to the table ; she sat now in her 
old place, her* head held high, a dangerous gleam in her 
half-veiled eyes, and a touch of disdain in the curve of her 
proud lips. She knew that there was no escape from that 
which was to come; she had resigned herself to listen, 
though she gave no sign of assent. 

Sir Gilbert leant his two hands upon the table and began 
to speak. He told her the history of his youth, of his mar- 
riage, of his disappointment, disguising nothing, taking 
upon himself all the blame of his spoilt existence. He 
spoke steadily, almost soberly ; but for the terrible pallor 
of his face and the hollows around his haggard eyes, his 
quiet might have been mistaken for calmness. He looked 
at her while he spoke, almost unremittingly, except that 
now and then he appeared to recollect himself, and his 
gaze was turned forcibly aside, only to return within the 
same minute to the hungry contemplation of her face. 

‘ This is the first part of thp story,’ he said, with an at- 
tempt at a smile, when he had spoken of the estrangement 
between his wife and himself, ‘ the second part began on 
the day when I saw you, Ulrica. I have told you that I 
had given up fighting, I believed that all ambition within 
me was dead, but on that day I discovered that this was 
not true. You were a revelation to me. I had not known 
you for two days before I knew that you were the woman 
whom I had been looking for all my life.’ 

‘ You should have gone then, after those two days,’ said 


184 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

Ulrica, not quite so steadily ; ‘ you should have gone im- 
mediately, and — you should not have deceived me.’ 

‘ Ulrica, it is difficult for you to understand ; I scarcely 
know how I can expect you to believe me, but I swear to 
you that there was no thought of deception in my mind. 
I have told you that my wife does not in any way figure 
in my life, much less does she figure in my conversation. 
Our lives are spent apart ; it never even occurs to me to 
speak of her, just as little as she would think of speaking 
of me.’ 

‘ But after those two days, when you knew — ^how it was 
to be, then you should have spoken.’ 

‘ I should ; I am guilty, but not so guilty as you think. 
My silence was a mere yielding to the spell of the moment. 
I allowed myself to drift without thought of harm in my 
mind. Ulrica, can you not understand this ? ’ 

She sat in sullen silence ; the rising and falling of her 
breast betrayed her growing agitation. 

‘ Can you not understand ! ’ he said again. 

‘ I understand that you found it convenient to be si- 
lent.’ 

‘This is hard; perhaps I have deserved it. You call 
me cruel, and yet you are ten times more cruel yourself. 
But this cannot stop me ; you must hear me to the end. 
You must understand everything, there must not be eve*n 
the shadow of a veil between us. I want you to know 
not only that I love you, but that, though I have a wife, 
and though according to conventional rules I have no 
right to tell you what I am telling you, yet my love for 
you is the highest and holiest instinct of my life. I have 
never known what love suqji as this meant until I met you, 
just as I never knew what a woman could be until you 
taught me. You have shown me a new world, I know 
now what I could have accomplished with you by my side. 
You are beautiful, but it is not your beauty alone which 
has conquered me, it is your womanly greatness. It is 
not true that which you told me that first day when we sat 
in the forest — do you remember ? — about your being a ty- 
rannical character, that it was this which drew you down 
to these poor, stupid peasants ; that is a calumny, you do 


A SECOND PARTING. 


185 


not know yourself. It is because you are so generous and 
so true, because you have the energy of a man and the 
heart- of a woman, that you became their Providence. 
You could not rest until you had relieved their poverty 
with some of your riches — for you are richer than I am, 
Ulrica,* far, far richer. You have things which I would 
gladly buy with the whole of my fortune. You are my 
Providence as well as theirs — these peasants ; you are the 
accomplishment of all my dreams. Oh, if you could have 
pity on me ! ’ 

The last words were like a cry that had escaped hirti 
against his will. He had left his position by the table as 
he spoke, and moved round to where she sat. Now he 
was standing beside her, he was bending towards her as 
though to read her face. 

Ulrica was trembling violently ; her wide-open eyes ex- 
pressed a growing terror ; she sat as though in a trance, 
her breath coming fast. 

‘ Tell me that you understand me, tell me that you be- 
lieve me,’ said Sir Gilbert. 

All at once, with a cry Ulrica started to her feet. 

‘ No, no, it is not true, I do not believe you, it is not 
thus that you think of me ! You have played with me 
from the beginning.’ 

The fear which rang in her voice was not fear of him, it 
was fear of herself. The depth of her own pain terrified 
her — was it possible that she would grow weak ? ‘It has 
all been unfair to me, unfair from the very beginning,’ she 
went on, speaking quickly and breathlessly, as though in 
fear of being interrupted. ‘ You knew what you were 
doing, I did not ; you must have seen how it would end, 
I could not ; you should have spared me by going away 
long, long before it came to this. But of course,’ her 
voice trembled passionately, ‘ it would be too much to ask 
any man to cut short a pleasant pastime merely that a 
woman should be spared. Oh, do not interrupt me ; it is 
no child you are speaking to, I have seen the world, I 
know it. You tell me nothing new when you tell me I am 
beautiful. I have been told that before, often ; I have seen 
it written in men’s eyes, so often and so plainly, that I 


1 86 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

• 

have got to hate my own face. Why should you be more 
blind than the others? You are the rich Sir Gilbert 
Nevyll, and I am homeless and alone — what should prevent 
you from indulging a whim ? What is it to you whether 
my peace is destroyed forever, so long as you have had the 
necessary excitement to tide you over the autumn, with- 
out time weighing on your hands? You talk of loving me, 
perhaps you do, I don’t know ; ’but you will forget, for you 
the world is full of the means of forgetting ; you will find 
other amusements, there are other beautiful women in the 
world. While I — oh, .leave me,’ she cried vehemently, ‘ I 
have been insulted before, but never so cruelly ! ’ 

She stopped, with her blazing eyes full upon him. At 
this moment she felt almost strong, almost safe. She had 
intoxicated herself with the sound of her own words. 

‘This is unjust,’ said Gilbert slowly, ‘and it is unreason- 
able. I have played no game with you. Of what do you 
accuse me ? If I were the heartless libertine you would 
have me be, should I not be pleading my cause? Have I 
asked you for the smallest token of your favour ? I know 
that you are too proud and too strong to be won thus. I 
know that you love me, and I know that you are as unat- 
tainable to me as though you dwelt upon a star up there 
in the heavens. I have not come to force my love upon 
you, but to relieve my mind of the burden which pressed 
upon it. I have come to say good-bye before I go 
heaven knows where — not back to my home,’ and he shud- 
dered, ‘ I am done with that caricature of a marriage 
which has turned my life into an absurdity. But I could 
not go without telling you that I am yours, body and soul, 
forever. I could not say this to you two days ago, be- 
cause two days ago I had a wife, or thought I had one ; 
now I know better — there is a woman who has the right 
to bear my name, — that is all. I shall never forget. One 
word of yours will call me from the end of the world — but 
you will not say it ; I hope for nothing, I have told you. 
I see nothing before me but the old empty life, more hid- 
eously empty since it was filled by you, the emptiness cov- 
ered up with the old gilding of money. I used to make 
jokes about my money, about being bothered by it — do you 


A SECOND PARTING. 


187 


remember? That was all nonsense. It is only now that 
I loathe it from the bottom of my heart, since I cannot di- 
vide it with you. It is terrible for me to be rich while you 
are poor. It has nearly killed me to look on at your fight 
with hands tied. Often during these past weeks I could 
have snatched up those poor toil-worn fingers and covered 
then with kisses. Ulrica, is it impossible that I should help 
you? No, do not answer — you will let me do nothing, it 
would be a fresh insult. Say one word to me before I 
go!’ 

‘ I have nothing to say, I have said everything, I will 
not listen to more.’ 

The convulsive trembling had come over her again. 
* The only mercy you can show me is to go at once, and 
never, never come back.’ 

‘ Never, unless you call me.’ 

She did not say in words, ‘ That will never be,’ but the 
answer stood engraven around her tight-set lips. 

The candle in the pewter candlestick had burned almost 
to its socket. Sir Gilbert took it up, and, holding it above 
his head, gazed intently into her face, as though he were 
busily printing off on to his memory every smallest line of 
her features. In the imperfect and strangely distributed 
light the black shadows about his eyes and his temples ap- 
peared unnaturally deep. Drops of moisture stood upon 
his forehead. 

After a minute he put back the candle on the table, then, 
with a sigh that was almost a groan, he stooped, and lifting 
the hem of the coarse linen apron which covered her dress, 
he pressed his lips upon it. 

No further word was spoken between them. At the 
door he turned — there was a long question in the look. 
Ulrica stood immovable, her gaze fixed on the wall op- 
posite. 

Leaving the door open behind him, Gilbert went out 
into the black night. 

Still Ulrica stood as he had left her. Through the open 
door stray leaves, blown by the wind, came whirling over 
the floor up to her very feet. The slight rustle seemed to 
rouse her. Her immobility relaxed. She sank down on 


1 88 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

her knees beside the chair, and buried her face in her 
arms. Then she raised her head to listen. His footsteps 
were dying away on the gravel of the path, they had not 
yet reached the gate. She realised suddenly that he was 
not yet quite lost to her ; she had only to raise her voice. 
One word would bring him back — he had said so. With 
a shudder she put her hands over her ears, to shut out the 
sound of those footsteps. Her teeth were tightly set as 
though to keep back the cry that was struggling to rise. 

Thus she remained for many minutes, and did not dare 
to stir until she had gained the certainty that there was no 
movement and no sound outside but that of the wind, 
which still played with the window-shutters, and sweeping 
in now unchecked, had all but extinguished the remains of 
the tallow candle on the table. 


CHAPTER XX. 

DECEMBER EIGHTH. 

The first few days after her cousin’s second departure 
from the village were spent by Ulrica in a state of impassi- 
bility so deep as to border on apathy. That complete ex- 
haustion, both bodily and mental, which seldom fails to 
follow upon intense excitement had mercifully descended 
upon her. It was like a short respite. 

With the gradual return of her strength her real suffer- 
ing began. Her greatest support in these days was her 
indignation. She carefully cherished this indignation, feed- 
ing it with every scrap of evidence which seemed to prove 
her cousin’s guilt, fanning it into flame with continual ap- 
peals to her wounded pride, her injured dignity. 

‘ A way to kill time, it was nothing but that to him,’ she 
obstinately repeated ; ‘he has burnt his fingers at the game, 
that is all. I trusted him so entirely, but he is like all the 
others.’ 

Think and surmise as she would, she could not imagine 


DECEMBER EIGHTH. 


189 

what her future was to be. What could possibly happen 
next? Life seemed to have come to a dead standstill; 
would she die soon, or would she live to be old at Glock- 
enau, would she gaze on these pine forests until her eyes 
grew dim? Would she end by going in and out of the 
Marienhof leaning on a stick ? And would all that had 
happened this autumn appear as unreal as a dream dreamed 
long ago ? And then would she at last be laid to rest in 
that same churchyard where her father slept ? 

Her father ! The thought of him struck her with a 
sudden reproach. No, of course she must not die yet, she 
must live at least till the object of her life was fulfilled, till 
his name was cleared. It had become very indistinct of 
late, that object, she had all but lost sight of it. But now 
it must be taken up again with tenfold energy, since it was 
all that remained to her to live for. If she could work so 
hard that at the end of each day she should absolutely be 
too tired to think, then it would be possible to face the 
prospect of the long winter evenings in the Stube of the 
Marienhof, when the ghosts of her brief happiness would 
slink out of the dark comers and crowd around her in her 
loneliness. 

Autumn was fast turning into winter, though no snow 
had fallen yet. A succession of sunless misty days had 
set in. Every tree in the valley that was not a pine tree 
shivered naked in the November blast. The hedges which 
divided the gardens were so carefully stripped of their last 
leaf and stiffened to such a nicety by the frost that the 
wind could play upon them with its slightest breath, as 
though it were sweeping the strings of a well-tuned harp. 
The numberless little frothy streams which had sung so 
merrily through summer days and all through the still 
summer nights were now so choked with yellow leaves that 
all they could do was to trickle hoarsely. 

November passed in one dead level of monotony. De- 
cember appeared with as dead a face and as monotonous 
a gait. At the Marienhof the only two events of the day 
were the rising and the setting of the sun, that is the begin- 
ning and the ending of work. Thus passed the first, the 
second, the third, there seemed no reason to doubt that it 


1 90 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

would go on thus to the thirty-first. On the eighth, much 
against her inclination, Ulrica was forced to rest from 
work, for the eighth is a feast day consecrated to the Vir- 
gin, and scrupulously observed in Austria. Such a day 
stands in the rustic mind far higher than a Sunday, and 
Ulrica could not dream of scandalising the Glockenau 
mind by the spectacle of the Grafin doing servile work on 
the feast of the Immaculate Conception. Hitherto she 
had carefully avoided those spots which were more closely 
associated with her cousin’s visit, but to-day, being com- 
pelled to idleness, some irresistible force drew her, almost 
against her will, to the pine forest, and once she was in the 
forest to the spot where she had sat with him last on the 
day when she had learnt of his wife’s existence. 

Dead silence reigned now in the forest sanctuary, for 
the first touch of frost had been enough to arrest that 
tiny thread of water which slipped over the rock. The 
answering voices were hushed. The fringe of ferns on the 
old mill-wheel was now replaced by a fringe of icicles ; 
the grass was flattened and frost-bitten. Of the cyclamen 
that had once strewn the spot she could not even distin- 
guish the seed-pods, but a few of the yellow ragworts — 
not yellow now but brown — still stood upright like extinct 
torches ; some of them indeed had had their necks broken 
by the wind and ruefully dangled their injured heads. 

Beside the two millstones Ulrica stood still; they too 
were coated with ice and plastered over with leaves that 
had frozen where they fell. Upon one of the rocks in the 
stream, high and dry above the channel of the water, an 
irregularly round, brownish-black object was lying. Ulrica 
went close to the edge of the bank and looked at the 
round thing keenly. It was the cyclamen wreath which she 
had worn for a few minutes, now lying just where she had 
flung it when she left the spot. The blackened stalks with 
the clump of ice which had gathered above them might 
almost have been taken for some precious relic preserved 
under glass. 

She turned and walked quickly back to the village. No, 
she would not go to the forest again, there were too many 
ghosts there, more even than in the Stube at home. 


DECEMBER EIGHTH. 


191 


Next morning a letter was brought to the Marienhof. 
It was nothing but a few final words of farewell from Gil- 
bert Nevyll, bearing the date of the day before and the 
postmark of Vienna. He had not been sufficiently master 
of himself to write sooner, he explained, but, before leaving 
Austria, he wished to bid her good-bye once again. He was 
going to travel in the East, for how long he did not know. 

Ulrica locked away the letter and went about her work. 
Towards dark she set off to inquire after the health of one 
of her patients in the village. This patient lived at the 
extreme upper end of the street, and Ulrica, both in com- 
ing and going, had to pass by the door of the ‘ Golden 
Sun.’ When she passed it the first time, the little square 
building looked exactly as comfortable and as sleepy as 
usual, the open doorway was unoccupied, and only a dis- 
tant sound of pans being scoured issued from the kitchen 
region. But when Ulrica came down the street again all 
this was 'changed. The ‘ Golden Sun ’ seemed suddenly to 
have started wide awake. Even from a distance, and in 
spite of the dusk, Ulrica could see quite a crowd collected 
at the door. In the first instant this did not strike her as 
unusual, for this was the hour at which the Stellwagen 
arrived in Glockenau, and its appearance was generally 
sufficient excuse for the loiterers in the village street to cpl- 
lect. There were more loiterers than usual to-day, perhaps 
that was all. Perhaps one of the poor old post-horses was 
down on the ice, or perhaps the Apfelbauer had come 
back from his trip to the plain, where he had gone in hopes 
of making a good bargain for his apples. 

But the nearer Ulrica drew to the ‘ Golden Sun ’ the 
more forcibly did it strike heir that there must be some 
greater cause for the excitement. Even had both post- 
horses been down, and even had the Apfelbauer made 
ever so miraculous a bargain, this could not account for 
the dimensions which the crowd was rapidly assuming. 
From the doors of houses all along the street people were 
running to join the group. That the excitement was in 
some way connected with the arrival of the Stellwagen was, 
however, quite clear. Ulrica, as she approached, could 
distinguish the yellow, monster in the centre of the crowd. 

13 


192 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

The horses were not down, they stood with lowered heads 
and steaming flanks. No one seemed to be thinking of 
unharnessing the tired brutes. Neither was the Apfel- 
bauer visible anywhere ; the person who seemed to be 
commanding the general attention was the man who acted 
as guard. He stood on the doorstep, conspicuous in his 
faded blue dress, gesticulating incessantly and tugging oc- 
casionally at the strap by which his leather money-pouch 
was slung from his shoulder, as though to give more weight 
to his words. 

It would be time enough to hear what had happened 
to-morrow, thought Ulrica, and she kept to the further 
side of the street, hoping to pass by unobserved in the 
dusk. But just as she was opposite to the door of the 
inn, one word, pronounced with a peculiarly shrill distinct- 
ness by the man in the blue coat, reached her ear. It was 
a word which particularly struck her attention, for it was 
the word Vienna, and all day long, do what she would, 
her thoughts had been full of Vienna. Her steps slack- 
ened unconsciously, and she strained to hear more. ‘Vi- 
enna — terrible castastrophe ’ — came again. 

Ulrica hesitated for a moment, then turned back and 
crossed the street towards the inn-door. 

‘ What has happened ? ’ she asked one of the men on the 
outskirts of the group, a small shrivelled person who was 
craning his neck, and holding his shrunken hand trumpet- 
wise to his ear, at the same time that he was groaning pro- 
digiously. 

‘ What is he talking about % ’ 

‘ Holy Mary, I don’t know ; my hearing has never been 
good since the flood, and I can’t get near enough to hear 
the words, but it must be something dreadful by the way 
he waves his arms. Perhaps it is another flood somewhere 
else,’ he suggested, with a happy thought. 

‘ Make room for the Grafin,’ said some women along- 
side, and the good-natured peasants immediately cleared a 
passage, so that Ulrica was enabled to approach within a 
few yards of the speaker. At that moment he was pausing 
to draw breath and at the same time to wipe his forehead 
with a checked cotton handkerchief. 


DECEMBER EIGHTH. 


193 

' What is it that has happened ? ’ asked Ulrica, address- 
ing herself directly to him. 

The guard was familiar with the Grafin by sight, and he 
respectfully touched his hat. 

‘ The most dreadful misfortune that has ever been heard 
of in Vienna, Grafin — ’ 

‘ Or in the whole of Austria, either,’ emphasised the pos- 
tilion from the box, where, having thrown the reins on the 
horses’ backs, he was smoking his pipe with an air of quiet 
enjoyment, removing it only occasionally from between his 
lips in order to back up the guard’s remarks with a corrob- 
oration of his own, which invariably magnified to at least 
double its value the weight of the fact just announced. 

‘It is a terrible fire which took place last night. They 
say that hundreds of people are burnt to death.’ 

‘ Thousands,’ remarked the impassible postilion from the 
box, without taking the trouble to turn his head. 

‘ Holy Virgin, to think of there being a house big enough 
to hold thousands of people!’ ejaculated some one in the 
.crowd. 

‘ But a theatre is not like a common house,’ corrected 
another. 

‘ It is a theatre, then, that is burnt down?’ asked Ulrica, 
changing colour suddenly. ‘ Which theatre ? ’ 

‘ The big theatre in Vienna, Grafin ; it is burnt to the 
ground.’ 

‘ Listen to the man,’ cried the landlady of the ‘ Golden 
Sun ’ who stood close by. ‘He talks of the theatre, 
as though our Kaiserstadi had only one playhouse for 
folks to amuse themselves in. As if my Franzl himself 
had not been in three different theatres when his regiment 
was in Vienna two years ago! Why, they have at least a 
dozen theatres there.’ 

The postilion removed his pipe from his lips and spat once 
with such artistic neatness and with such nice calculation of 
space and distance as to clear both horses by a line. ‘ Several 
dozen,’ he then remarked, before taking his next puff. 

The guard appeared somewhat discomfited. Evidently 
his inclination to harangue the multitude was greater than 
his knowledge of the facts. 


194 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

‘ It is one of the big theatres,’ he vaguely explained, at- 
tempting to veil his ignorance by a bewildering superfluity 

of gesture, ‘ but we didn’t stop long enough at S to 

hear the name. The whole town is full of it there. They 
say that many people jumped out of the windows into the 
street, and the corpses that were fetched out were burnt 
as — as — ’ 

‘Tar,’ suggested the postilion. 

‘ It was burning still this morning, they say ; perhaps it is 
burning now, they were afraid the whole street would 
catch fire. Good Lord ! ’ cried the dramatically inclined 
guard, with a final tug which wrenched the long-suffering 
cord in two, ‘ for anything we know all Vienna may be in 
flames while we are standing talking here.’ 

There was a long-drawn ‘ A-a-h ! ’ of horror, and some 
of the group turned instinctively to where the horizon was 
visible, and gaped terror-stricken at the evening sky, as 
though expecting to see there the red reflection of the 
monster fire. 

‘ Blessed Saints ! ’ exclaimed the round-faced landlord of 
the ‘ Golden Sun,’ who until now had pronounced no opin- 
ion on the subject under discussion. ‘ If the whole of 
Vienna is burnt down, where will the Kaiser live ? ’ 

‘Stuff and rubbish!’ briskly responded his wife; ‘they 
won’t let it burn down ; what have they got firemen and 
water-pumps for, I should like to know 1 ’ 

‘ It’s a pity we couldn’t send them some of our water 
three months ago,’ grinned a youth who set up for a wit. 

‘ We had more than we wanted in August.’ 

But there was no response to the well-meant joke ; the 
Glockenau imagination, inflamed by the guard’s glowing 
word-pictures, would scent nothing but tragedy in the air. 

‘ Good Lord ! ’ cried an old woman who seemed to 
have been seized with a sudden access of terror, ‘ to think 
that my Nandi was in Vienna with her Herrschaft^ not 
more than six months ago! Supposing she was there 
still, and supposing she had gone to the play last night! 
O Lord, O Lord, what a terrible way to die,’ and she be- 
gan to whimper helplessly. 

‘You may as well stop that crying,’ broke in the ener-. 


DECEMBER EIGHTH. 


195 


getic landlady, with a touch of irritation ; ‘ do you suppose 
your Nandi could have caught fire six months in advance? 
I might as well be wringing my hands because of my 
Franzl having been in Vienna two years ago. You’re a 
fool, Kathi Hinzmaier, take my word for it that that’s 
what you are ! ’ 

But even this opinion, pronounced in the tone of the 
most profound conviction, failed to reassure Kathi Hinz- 
maier. The poor old body could not recover from the 
violent ‘ tremble ’ into which she had fallen. 

‘ Ah, it is all very well for you to speak,’ she would sigh 
in answer to all soothing assurances. ‘ Your heart is not 
in it. Oh, it is easy to speak when you have got no one 
at the place of the fire.’ 

Ulrica had heard all that she wanted to know. Detaching 
herself from the group, she pursued her way home. On 
reaching the Marienhof she merely paused to place her 
basket on a bench and to strike a match, then went straight 
to her old trunk, in which everything which she at all valued 
was kept under lock and key. The letter she had received 
in the morning was lying just under the lid ; she took it 
out, and carrying it to the table, sat down to read it 
through carefully once more. Her eyes flew along the 
lines till they came to this passage : 

‘ I leave to-night, and hope within the next forty-eight 
hours to have turned my back on Europe for a good while 
to come. Possibly I may try Constantinople for a little 
first ; I am told that Oriental veils and black eyes have a 
wonderful power of prompting forgetfulness of other things. 
You see that I am doing my best to fulfil your prophecy. I 
have been to the play almost every day this w-eek ; I shall 
probably go again to-night — on my way to the station. I 
don’t understand more than every tenth word they say, 
but it’s better than being alone with myself in the hotel 
smoking-room or walking the streets until the hour for my 
start comes.’ 

This morning, when Ulrica first read the letter, this pas- 
sage had struck her only because of the clue which it gave 
to Gilbert’s state of mind ; now, however, she was reading 
it with dilferent eyes. He spoke of going to a theatre 


196 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

that night — ^last night — and it was last night that the fatal 
fire had taken place. She looked at the date again ; yes, 
there could be no doubt ; his letter was dated December 
8, 1881, that date which has since attained such a mourn- 
ful celebrity, which will ever be marked with black in the 
mind of every Viennese and of most Austrians. 

A sense of uneasiness had come over Ulrica. The 
strange coincidence — it might be nothing else — awoke a 
dim foreboding. Looking at the matter with coolness and 
reason, the sudden fear which had taken possession of her 
must indeed have appeared but insecurely grounded. 
Ulrica told herself this, but without being able to regain 
her equanimity. She attempted to tell herself as well that 
her cousin’s fate could in no way concern her, but the 
thought died in the forming, the lie was too palpable to 
deceive her even for a moment. The exclamation of 
Nandi’s foolish old mother came back to her mind. ‘Ah, 
it is easy for you to speak, your heart is not in it, you have 
got no one at the place of the fire.’ She felt as powerless 
as that illogical old woman to throw off the load of fear 
which had fallen on her. 

Herr Pfanner, the schoolmaster, took a daily paper, and 
proved willing to place it at the Grafin’s disposal, but only 
for one hour, by the clock, this rigorous limit being necessary 
because of the number of his acquaintance to whom he had 
promised to read aloud the latest news from Vienna. 

The reports of the catastrophe had not been exaggerated, 
or scarcely so ; of this Ulrica convinced herself by her first 
glance at the paper. ‘ The Ring Theatre in flames.’ This 
was the first heading which met her eye. It was the Ring 
then. For an instant she breathed more freely. If it had 
been the Opera that had been burnt down, or the Burg^ 
then the chances of her cousin having been at the scene of 
the fire would surely have been greater. So she fancied 
at first, but the thought followed fast : ‘ If he has been to 
the play almost every day, he will have been to the other 
theatres first.’ She went on reading with strained atten- 
tion. The first report was dated December 8th, 7.25 p.m. 
‘ The Ring Theatre is in flames, a catastrophe is appre- 
hended.’ 


DECEMBER EIGHTH. 


197 


* 7.40. As the fire commenced previous to the raising of 
the curtain, it is hoped that a catastrophe will be averted.’ 

‘8 o’clock. All hopes of averting a catastrophe have 
been abandoned. The first corpses have been brought out 
of the burning house. The windows are blocked with 
women shrieking for help. An indescribable excitement is 
raging through Vienna.’ 

‘ 9 o’clock. Twenty dead bodies have already been re- 
moved. There seem grounds to fear that the number of 
victims is not yet exhausted.’ 

‘9.50. It is certain now that more than fifty persons 
have perished. The attempts at rescue are being con- 
tinued unremittingly.’ 

‘ I o o’clock. The number of victims has risen to over a 
hundred.’ 

‘ Midnight. It is absolutely impossible at the present 
moment even approximately to fix the number of persons 
who have lost their lives, but there seems little doubt that 
not less than three or four hundred will have perished. 
Owing to the holiday the theatre was more than usually 
crowded.’ 

Ulrica took back the paper to the school-house, punctu- 
ally at the end of the hour. Next day she presented her- 
self as punctually in order to carry away the one which 
had newly arrived. She looked at nothing but the report 
of the fire. The catastrophe seemed to be assuming ever 
larger dimensions. The most ghastly details were given ; 
the firemen who had penetrated into the interior of the 
building brought back tales of horror; dead bodies had 
been found still burning like tinder ; in one of the passages, 
jammed up against a locked door, eighteen persons had 
been discovered, some with features still recognisable, 
others^so horribly charred that the bracelets or watch- 
chains they wore presented the only means of identifica- 
tion. 

On this day and the next, and for many following days, 
the paper was full to overflowing of these blood-curdling 
pictures. Day by day Ulrica walked down to the school- 
house to fetch the new number ; with blanched cheeks she 
scanned the lists of the dead that had been identified, and 


198 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

breathed more freely when she reached the last name. 
There was no word in all the reports which could give her 
cause either to hope or to fear, yet she took a morbid inter- 
est in reading them all down to the last line ; and by dint 
of dwelling on the many descriptions given of that night 
of terror she came almost to feel as though she had her- 
self been a spectator of the tremendous scene. She went 
about her work, indeed, as usual in the Marienhof, but it 
was only with her hands that she worked, her mind was 
far away. The horn-signals of the firemen rang incessantly 
in her ears, and upon everything at which she looked there 
seemed to lie a reflection of that glow which had painted 
the night red on that terrible 8th of December. 


CHAPTER XXL 

*WHAT NEXT?* 

One evening, about the middle of December, an elderly 
personage who spoke no German, and who did not appear 
to be used to travelling, alighted at the door of the ‘ Grand 
Hotel ’ in Vienna. 

A fur-clad porter and a waiter with a snowy shirt-front, 
and an unspeakable dignity of demeanour, advanced simul- 
taneously to open the cab-door. 

‘ Is the room engaged ? ’ asked the waiter in German ; 
then, having cast a keener glance at the traveller, he re- 
peated his question in what, no doubt, he considered to be 
English. 

‘ Haf you commanded an apartment ? * 

. ‘No, there is no room engaged.’ The Englishman did 
not yet move from his seat. ‘ I must first know whether I 
am at the right place. Is there a man called Kennedy 
staying at this hotel ? ’ 

‘ Kenneti ? Ach^ surely ! ’ A shade of interest crossed 
the. countenance of the magnificent waiter, giving it a touch 


*WHAT NEXT?’ 


199 

of something distinctly human. ‘ You speak of the valet 
of the English Sir ? ’ 

‘ Of Sir Gilbert Nevyll — yes.’ The stranger looked hard 
at the waiter as he alighted. ‘ Is there any news of him ? ’ 
he asked, in a voice which was by nature somewhat harsh 
and grating, and which possibly the desire to conceal any 
appearance of anxiety may have rendered at this moment 
a shade more grating than usual. 

‘ We have no news of the English Sir,’ replied the waiter, 
who had become himself again, and who, with a movement 
as dexterous as it was discreet, had relieved the traveller 
of the small leather bag which he held in his hand, and to 
which he had attempted to cling with some of the average 
Britisher’s disinclination to yield into strange hands all he 
possesses. 

‘ Oh, blease do not incommode yourself,’ as the elderly 
gentleman pulled out his purse. ‘ We will see that the gab 
is baid out.’ This was said in the sort of tone that makes 
people feel that they have just been on the verge of com- 
mitting some painfully undignified, not to say indecent, act. 

‘ Will you show me to a bedroom and then send the valet 
to me ? ’ began the stranger with punctilious civility, despite 
his grating voice; but before he had proceeded further 
there appeared from behind one of the huge pillars of the 
entrance a man with a scared, white face and red whiskers, 
who made a sort of terrified rush towards the entering fig- 
ures. 

' ‘O Mr. Dunnet, O sir!’ was all that Kennedy could ut- 
ter. ‘ Oh, thank God, sir, that you have come!’ 

‘ Tut, tut,’ said Mr. Dunnet, with a somewhat startled 
glance at Kennedy’s pale face, ‘ it’s not so bad as that, is 
it ? Wait till we are alone, Kennedy.’ 

‘ If the gentleman desires to make inquiries,’ suggested 
the waiter, ‘perhaps he will confer with Herr Krenner.’ 

‘Who is Herr Krenner?’ 

Herr Krenner, it appeared, was the business manager of 
the establishment. 

‘ That will do later on ; I must have Kennedy’s version 
first. Show me to a room, please, and, Kennedy, keep 
close.’ 


200 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


There was no need to tell Kennedy to keep close. So 
close, in fact, did he slink at Mr. Dunnet’s heels on the way 
upstairs, that he twice had his toes severely trodden upon. 

While the dainty-looking housemaid was noiselessly 
busied with the porcelain stove, Mr. Dunnet paced the floor 
with his hands in his pockets and his overcoat only half 
unbuttoned — for the atmosphere of the dismal apartment 
was something like that of a cellar — and Kennedy stood 
rigid beside the table, following that gentleman anxiously 
with his eyes, as though in fear of seeing him vanish into 
thin air. 

‘ Now, Kennedy, let me hear what this is all about,’ be- 
gan Mr. Dunnet as soon as the door was closed behind the 
housemaid. ‘ I did not half understand your telegram. 
Speak quietly, man ; there is no hurry, and we must have 
no confusion.’ 

Mr. Dunnet, as he spoke, took up his position with his 
back to the stove, and threw his overcoat a little further 
open. He was a tall, spare man, something on the wrong 
side of fifty. All the hair which he had grew in two dis- 
tinct wisps, beginning behind his ears and striving to join 
above his bald forehead in a manner which suggested an 
eternal laurel-wreath. In the general course of things he 
would have been clean-shaved, but it was evident from the 
suggestive cloud about his chin, as well as from the slight 
disarrangement in the iron-grey laurel-wreath, that he had 
travelled day and night. Kennedy, who knew that Mr. 
Dunnet was most precise and particular in every point that 
regarded personal appearance, was able to estimate the 
fact of his showing himself with a stubbly chin at its proper 
value. It meant that he was fully alive to the gravity of 
the situation. 

‘ It was this way, sir,’ began the valet, evidently making 
a great effort to speak with some composure. ‘ We were 
to leave Vienna that night — ’ 

Mr. Dunnet raised his hand. 

‘ Stop a bit, we must go further back than that. Where 
did you find Sir Gilbert when he wrote for you to join 
him ? ’ 

‘ In this same hotel, sir. It is not a fortnight ago that I 


*WHAT NEXT? 


201 


got out, sir. We were to go somewhere East — to Con- 
stantinople, I believe.’ 

‘ Yes, that was the direction he gave for his letters when 
he wrote for that last thousand pounds,’ remarked Mr. 
Dunnet, more to himself than to Kennedy. ‘ By-the-bye, 
the cheque came all right, I suppose f I had no acknowl- 
edgment. Do you happen to know whether Sir Gilbert 
cashed a cheque within the last fortnight ? ’ 

‘Yes, sir, he did. I heard him speaking to the gentle- 
man who is at the head of the establishment about the 
cashing of that cheque.’ 

‘ That’s all right, then. And now, as for my first tele- 
gram — do you know whether it reached Sir Gilbert’s hands 
before — before the evening of the 8th ? ’ 

‘ No, sir, he never got the telegrams. I have them both 
here,’ and Kennedy pulled out an enormous and highly re- 
spectable pocketbook, out of which he produced two tele- 
grams, one of them still smooth and crisp, the other ob- 
viously much ‘ fingered ’ — both still unopened. 

‘Then he knew nothing of Mr. Nevyll’s illness?’ 

‘Mr. Nevyll, sir? Oh, I am sorry, sir,’ said Kennedy 
sincerely. ‘ It isn’t bad, is it, sir ? ’ 

‘ It was so bad that when I sent my second telegram I 
scarcely expected Sir Gilbert to get home in time. But 
there has been a rally since ; he had taken some food be- 
fore I left.’ 

‘ Good Lord, as bad as that ! Sir Gilbert gone, and 
now Mr. Nevyll! Bless my soul, Mr. Dunnet,’ exclaimed 
Kennedy, in bewilderment, ‘ if they’re both gone, who’s to 
come next ? ’ 

‘Tush, man, what are you talking about? Who says 
they’re gone? Mr. Nevyll is dangerously ill, there is no 
doubt of that — it’s a very much worse attack of inflamma- 
tion of the lungs than the last was ; and as for Sir Gilbert 
— well, they haven’t found him^ have they?’ he asked 
abruptly. ‘ They told me there was no news.’ 

Kennedy shook his head, turning a shade paler. 

‘ Where there is doubt there is hope,’ said Mr. Dunnet, 
attempting to warm the sole of his right foot by holding 
it against the little brass door, which had scarcely yet lost 


202 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


its chill. ‘ Go on with your story. When did you see Sir 
Gilbert last I ’ 

‘ It might have been half-past six, sii*. I had just done 
packing his things when he came into the room. He told 
me he had paid the bill and settled everything downstairs. 
I was to go straight to the station with the luggage, to be 
there sharp at a quarter before nine ; Sir Gilbert would 
join me there — he was going to the play meanwhile. The 
telegram came just about ten minutes after Sir Gilbert had 
driven off. One of the hotel people took it after him. It 
did cross my mind as how there might be news in that tele- 
gram which might change Sir Gilbert’s plans ; but it got to 
be eight o’clock and more, and Sir Gilbert did not come 
back, nor the man who had taken the telegram either ; and 
when they told me the cab was there, I couldn’t do nothing 
but follow my orders, could I, sir?’ 

‘ And till what o’clock did you wait for Sir Gilbert at 
the station ? ’ 

‘ Till past ten o’clock, sir, until some English-speaking 
person told me that the only train that could take us to 
Constantinople was gone an hour since, after which I came 
straight back to the hotel, and then — ’ Kennedy broke 
off, and the scared look — the look of a man who has seen 
something terrible, from the sight of which he has not yet 
recovered — deepened on his face. 

‘ Then what ? ’ asked Mr. Dunnet, now occupied in toast- 
ing his left sole and throwing open his coat a little wider, 
either because the room was growing warmer, or because 
the narrative was deepening in interest. 

‘ It was from then that it all began, sir. The first thing 
was that the head-waiter met me with the very same tele- 
gram in his hand which had been carried after Sir Gilbert, 
only that it was all crumpled and dirty, as you see it there. 
The theatre had been burning already when the man got 
there. And then, sir, I waited all night, thinking that Sir 
Gilbert was just the man to be helping them with the water- 
pumps, and that he would be back in the morning ; but he 
has never come back since, and that’s eight days back, and 
all I know, sir.’ 

' Why did you not telegraph to me eight days ago ? If 


*WHAT NEXT? 


203 


I had been on the spot immediately after the event, it 
would have made the inquiries very much easier.’ 

Kennedy looked piteously at Mr. D unnet. 

‘ You see, sir, I was kind of frozen. It happened so un- 
expected that it didn’t seem quite real. And then with 
every day I kept fancying that Sir Gilbert would just walk 
into the room. It was only when the. second telegram 
came that I got woke up, as it were, and it came into my 
head that since I couldn’t find Sir Gilbert for myself, you 
would be the only person who could come near to having 
a chance.’ 

It was clear that the catastrophe had been too much for 
Kennedy’s nerves. In such emergencies as a belated ap- 
pearance of his master’s luggage or a button giving way 
just as the dinner-gong sounded, his presence of mind had 
always proved itself brilliantly equal to the occasion, but 
bumt-down theatres lay outside the circle of his experiences ; 
he had not been trained up to face catastrophes with the 
same coolness as he could have faced the order to pack up 
within twenty minutes for a six-weeks’ trip to Skye. 

Mr. Dunnet walked silently to the table, and abstractedly 
stared into the flame of one of the candles which stood 
there. 

‘ What steps have been taken as yet ? ’ he asked, after a 
minute. ‘ Has any attempt been made to identify any of 
the victinis with Sir Gilbert ? ’ 

The seared look returned to the valet’s face. 

‘ They did try that,’ he resumed, his voice sinking a little. 

^ The gentleman as manages the hotel went the rounds of 
the hospitals himself in order to see whether Sir Gilbert 
was not lying somewhere among the wounded, and not able 
to speak for himself ; and after that he took me with him 
to a place where the — the bodies were laid out, sir ; all 
those they had found, leastways ; it was the bodies of those 
persons who had not as yet been recognised. Most of 
them,’ and Kennedy seemed to swallow something hard in 
his throat, ' hadn’t much of a face remaining, but there was 
generally some part of the clothes or a watch-chain that 
wasn’t quite melted to go by, and — ’ 

‘Well?’ inquired Mr. Dunnet, finally divesting himsejf 


204 ^ QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

of his overcoat, for all in a moment the room seemed to 
have grown oppressive. ‘ Was there anything that could 
give you a clue f Are you certain you overlooked noth- 
ing?’ 

Kennedy made an attempt to draw himself up. 

‘ If there had been as much as half a boot of Sir Gilbert’s 
within those four walls, I think I may safely say, sir, that 
I would have spied it out. It is my firm belief, sir, that 
Sir Gilbert was not among those — those unhappy persons.’ 

‘ And all the other bodies had been identified, you say ? ’ 

‘ So they told me.’ 

‘ Well, then, since he was not among the dead not iden- 
tified, he was not among the victims.’ Mr. Dunnet’s tone 
was determinedly hopeful. ‘ What’s the matter, man ? ’ he 
added quickly, for the scared look on Kennedy’s face had 
deepened to one of almost grotesque horror. 

‘ That’s not all, sir,’ said the valet, in a hoarse whisper ; 

‘ those bodies there was not all. They say as how they 
buried thirty coffinfuls of — ©f sir,’ finished Kennedy, 

with a gasp. “ They couldn’t noway tell what was what.’ 

Mr. Dunnet’s hand went up again mechanically, and for 
a moment or two the family lawyer and the valet stared 
aghast into each other’s horror-stricken faces. Then Mr. 
Dunnet sat down somewhat abruptly on the nearest chair. 
The object which at this moment rose most distinctly before 
his mind’s eye was te marble mausoleum in the park at 
Morton Hall, within whose costly walls Sir Gilbert’s father 
and grandfather were sleeping their last sleep, and wherein 
Sir Gilbert had never doubted that, on whichever spot of 
earth his last breath should be drawn, he himself would one 
day be laid to rest. And now — those thirty coffins, worse, 
far worse than nameless — was it possible? Mr. Dunnet 
put out his hand towards the caraffe on the tables, and 
hastily tossed off a glass of the delicious Viennese water. 

‘ It was only yesterday, sir, that they buried them,’ Ken- 
nedy was saying. ‘ A grand sight, they say ; but I felt too 
sick even to go to the window. Over two hundred coffins, 
and the flowers just in cartloads. It would have taken a 
couple of hours just to have walked from one end of the 
procession to the other, so the head- waiter told me.’ 


‘WHAT NEXT?’ 


205 • 


‘ That will do, Kennedy,’ interrupted the lawyer. ‘ I see 
that we have at least as much cause to fear as to hope, but 
as yet all the evidence is negative. I must see whether 
anything positive is to be found out in other quarters.’ 

To Herr Krenner, who next appeared on the scene, Mr. 
D unnet introduced himself as the legal adviser of Sir Gil- 
bert Nevyll and as the representative of the family, en- 
trusted with the conducting of inquiries in this most dis- 
tressing business. 

What Herr Krenner himself could say was not much, 
but more important witnesses were promptly procured. 
There was, in the first place, the august head-waiter him- 
self, who had been entrusted with the securing of the 
theatre-box. It was a box au premier; this he distinctly 
remembered, and, if his much burdened memory served 
him right, the number was either eight or nine. Then there 
was the porter who had given the coachman the order for 
the Ring Theatre. Finally, there was the coachman him- 
self — for it was in a carriage belonging to the establishment 
that Sir Gilbert had started on that last drive — who had 
deposited Sir Gilbert in front of the Ring Theatre about 
ten minutes before seven o’clock. The coachman was un- 
doubtedly the most important witness. 

‘ Ask him,’ said Mr. Dunnet to the head-waiter, who was 
acting as interpreter, ‘ whether Sir Gilbert went straight into 
the theatre after having alighted ? ’ 

Upon this point the coachman could give no assurance. 
There had been three or four carriages in front, and Sir 
Gilbert had alighted some yards from the entrance, but it 
certainly was his impression that the Englishman had gone 
straight towards the doorway. 

‘ Impressions are all very well, but they are not proof,’ 
thought Mr. Dunnet, as he mentally recapitulated the state 
of the case while he was laying himself down to his well- 
earned rest. 

‘ Here we have a man who saw Sir Gilbert alight some 
dozen yards from the theatre entrance ; the next step un- 
doubtedly is to ascertain whether a person can be produced 
who saw Sir Gilbert actually inside the building. It has 
not yet been proved that he set foot within the theatre. 


* 2o6 a queen of curds and cream. 

There wanted ten minutes to the raising of the curtain. It 
is quite imaginable that Sir Gilbert might prefer to finish 
his cigar outside rather than sit for ten minutes in his box 
in solitary state. The fire broke out before the house was 
quite filled. There seems the ghost of a hope there ; to be 
sure it doesn’t explain the disappearance,, but still — ’ At 
this point Mr. Dunnet’s reflections lost their distinctness, 
for, despite the emotions of the last three hours. Nature 
would have her rights, and the tired traveller fell asleep. 

Next morning, at an early hour, with polished chin and 
the iron-grey laurel-wreath newly burnished and symmetri- 
cally plastered over his temples, Mr. Dunnet set out for 
the site of the burnt-down theatre, where discoveries were 
still being daily made, and where it was just within the 
bounds of possibility that since yesterday something might 
have come to light which would render all further inquiries 
superfluous. 

It was not a very long drive from the Grand Hotel to 
the site of the Ring Theatre, yet long enough to let Mr. 
Dunnet gain a distinct impression of the physiognomy of 
Vienna. It was an impression he never forgot. On the 
faces of the passers-by there lay a something which gave 
them a strange likeness to one another, a sort of family 
look called forth by the occasion ; it was the reflection of 
the great panic which had convulsed the town only eight 
days ago. In many wide-open eyes a horror that had not 
yet been conquered was broadly written. There were 
people among those passers-by who had themselves been 
in the burning theatre, there were a few whose muff or the 
depth of whose pocket shielded a bandaged hand still 
barely recovered from the fire-wound with which they had 
been lucky enough to escape. There were some — they 
might have been counted by the dozen during that quarter- 
of-an-hour’s drive — who wore brand-new mourning for 
near relations whom they had lost ip the fire ; there were 
more — these could have been counted by the hundred — 
who had stood in the crowd on the unhappy night, who 
had seen the bodies dragged out, who had shouted them- 
selves hoarse in frantic words of encouragement to the 
wretches clinging half-mad with fear ,to the framework of 


*WHAT NEXT?’ 


207 


the windows, waiting to be rescued, and who had closed 
their eyes in order not to see how the fingers of the women 
who would not jump were wrenched from their hold upon 
the sills, and how fainting girls were flung by their more 
resolute fellow-sufferers into the safety-nets spread below. 
The horror of it all was upon them still — fixed upon their 
panic-stricken faces. 

Oddly enough, it had for years past been a cherished 
wish of the hard-worked man of business to make ac- 
quaintance with the Lustige Kaiserstadt, where life flows so 
smoothly and spirits run so high, where the echoes of a 
Strauss waltz must surely be forever vibrating in the air, 
and where there is a sunshiny day for each of our foggy 
ones. A holiday trip in this direction had long been 
planned in his mind,' but now, alas, that the wish had 
been so unexpectedly fulfilled, it was no joyful but a 
mourning city that he found. Instead of a Strauss waltz 
it was rather the cadence of Beethoven’s funeral march 
with which the air seemed heavy, and sunshine and gaiety 
alike were extinguished by the shadow of that monster 
procession which had wound itself like a black serpent 
from one end of the town to the other. The baskets of 
the flower-vendors were but scantily filled — was it be- 
cause it was December, or was it because every available 
flower had been forced open before its time to be bound 
into funeral wreaths ? 

Despite all the tales of horror he had heard, it was only 
when he stood between the four naked walls of what had 
once been the Ring Theatre that Mr. Dunnet was able to 
estimate the catastrophe at its full value. There was not 
much to see, and just for this reason it was worth seeing. 
Not a trace of stalls or boxes anywhere, nor anything but 
the most shadowy indication of where they had been — 
charred beams, charred planks, charred bricks, beds of 
ashes six feet deep and more, and everything open to the 
winter sky, for of the roof all but a fragment had long 
since fallen in. The air even now was still impregnated 
with smoke, and portions of the wall were still hot to the 
touch. 

There was little work going on, for the discovery of 

14 


2o8 a queen of curds and cream. 

further bodies was considered improbable, and the final 
clearing away of the ruins could not be attempted until the 
place was thoroughly cooled down. Most of the men now 
at work were employed in sifting rubbish by throwing it in 
spadefuls through a coarse wire netting stretched horizon- 
tally between wooden poles. The various rings and watch- 
chains, in a more or less damaged state, which had come 
to light in this way since morning were produced for Mr. 
Dunnet’s inspection. He turned them over and shook his 
head ; there was nothing that could give him the slightest 
clue. 

This negative result would undoubtedly have encour- 
aged Mr. Dunnet, had it merely been retailed to him at 
second hand ; but standing, as he now was, in the midst of 
this mountain-range of ruins, it could not fail to strike him, 
as he watched the men at their work, that after all it was 
very much like a gnat drinking out of the ocean, and cer- 
tainly not more hopeful than the proverbial hunt for a 
needle in a haystack. 

Mr. Dunnet’s face was graver by several shades as he 
turned to leave the spot. Those blackened stones spoke 
very loud. 

‘ Where do you wish to go next ? ’ inquired the inter- 
preter, who was acting as guide. 

The next step, in Mr. Dunnet’s opinion, was to ascertain 
whether Sir Gilbert had or had not been seen to enter the 
box which had been engaged in his name. An application 
to the ticket-seller of the bumt-down theatre having first 
cleared up all doubt as to the number of the box in ques- 
tion, there now remained only one single thing to do, and 
that was to appeal to the memory of Frau Pamperl, the 
box-keeper, she being absolutely the only person who 
could throw light on the required point. 

It was a long, weary drive to the Leopoldstadt, where 
Frau Pamperl lived, followed by a long weary climb up 
stifling staircases. Mutter was in bed, announced the small 
boy who answered the summons, with his mouth full, for 
it was the universal dinner-hour for such as Frau Pamperl. 
She had been in bed with fright ever since the fire. Mr. 
Dunnet would have drawn back hastily, but perceiving by 


‘WHAT NEXT?’ 


209 


the warmth of the invitation to enter that he was absolutely 
solitary in his view of the case, the English lawyer gathered 
his courage together, and blushingly followed the inter- 
preter into Frau Pamperl’s sleeping apartment. 

‘ Something about the fire, of course,’ quavered the ex- 
box-keeper, rearing her meagre form from out of a perfect 
ocean of feather-beds. ‘ I’ve been able to answer all the 
questions as yet — my head is quite clear, it’s only my legs 
that can’t get over the shakiness yet. Poldi, you good- 
for-nothing,’ she interrupted herself, with an energy which 
certainly spoke in favour of the clearness of her head, 
‘will you leave that cat alone directly? Just wait a bit till 
I can get at you ! ’ for the small boy was diverting him- 
self by forcing some beer-dregs down the throat of an un- 
happy grey cat. 

‘ This gentleman wishes to know,’ broke in the interpre- 
ter, ‘ whether you can remember opening the door of box 
No. 9 in the first row on the evening of the 8th? ’ 

Frau Pamperl’s forefinger travelled to her forehead. 

‘No. 9? I’ll have it directly — my head is quite clear, 
you know, it’s only my legs. I’ve got it now ; yes, I cer- 
tainly took the ticket and opened the door all right. It 
was one of the first boxes occupied that night.’ 

‘ And was it to a lady or a gentleman you opened the 
door ? ’ 

This was a sort of mild trap which the interpreter on his 
own responsibility was laying for Frau Pamperl’s memory. 
But the ex-box-keeper was not to be tripped up so easily. 

‘A lady? Not a bit of it; a gentleman it was, and 
very much of a gentleman, too, seeing that he gave me a 
florin for no reason that I can think of. Would you just 
oblige me, sir, by giving that boy one good shake ? So-o ! ’ 
as the interpreter complied with alacrity. ‘ If any one will 
be glad when I get on my feet again, it’ll be that cat ! ’ 

‘ Ask for his personal description,’ said Mr. Dunnet, as 
the young heir of the Pamperls vanished with a howl into 
some back region. 

With every reply interpreted to him the shade on Mr. 
Dunnet’s face deepened. The occupant of No. 9 had 
been tall, broad-shouldered, he had a short brown beard, 


210 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


was dressed in a grey suit, and spoke broken German. 
There was not one point missing, and for the accuracy of 
the description Frau Pamperl was prepared to vouch. 
There was nothing wrong with her head, as she again ex- 
plained, it was only her legs. 

Mr. Dunnet groped his way silently down the staircase, 
and the order was given for the Grand Hotel. 

Kennedy was hanging about the passage as Mr. Dunnet 
stepped out of the lift. He looked at the lawyer with 
wistful inquiry, and at a sign followed him into the bed- 
room. 

' Look here, Kennedy,’ said Mr. Dunnet, as he sank 
wearily into one of the uncomfortable hotel arm-chairs, ‘ I 
am not prepared to say that all hope is gone yet ; but I 
have just spoken to a person who saw Sir Gilbert enter his 
box that evening. I am afraid it is time for me to take 
his effects under my charge. Have you got the keys, or 
did Sir Gilbert keep them ? ’ 

‘ I have them, sir. There is nothing but his clothes and 
toilet articles in those boxes. He always has his money 
about him when we are travelling. There’s some one 
knocking, sir.’ 

It was a messenger with a telegram. Mr. Dunnet 
signed the receipt and then slowly opened the paper. His 
countenance did not materially change as he read the two 
lines, but his voice sounded more grating than usual when 
after a minute he looked up and spoke, or rather uttered 
his thought aloud : 

‘ The question now is,’ he remarked, as he carefully folded 
up the telegram, ‘ is this the news of Mr. N evyll’s death, 
or is it Sir Ernest who died last night in Park Lane ? And 
if it is Sir Ernest — what next ? ’ 


CERTAINTY. 


2II 


CHAPTER XXII. 

CERTAINTY. 

Ulrica had received a message to the effect that the 
Apfelbauer was dying. She had received similar mes- 
sages on an average twice a week during the last month, 
so that the shock to her nerves was scarcely to be char- 
acterised as overwhelming. The good man had taken to 
his bed immediately on his return from the plain in De- 
cember ; it was February now, but he still kept between 
the sheets, and though Ulrica could see nothing beyond a 
certain ^ achiness ’ about the joints, he persisted in believ- 
ing that his constitution was undermined. On five distinct 
occasions had his children been collected round his bed in 
order to receive his last blessing, and had his weeping 
widow in spe been exhorted to remain faithful to his mem- 
ory and to mind that the cross on his grave was at least 
an inch taller than that on the mound which covered the 
remains of the Birnenbauer^ who had been his rival in life. 

On this particular evening Ulrica, on entering the house, 
was confronted by the spectacle of the nine small Apfel- 
bauers kneeling in a half circle before the picture of the 
Madonna in the comer of the room, a lighted taper being 
clutched in each small hand. It was a picturesque scene, 
and would have been considerably more touching than it 
was, if Ulrica had not happened only yesterday to have 
seen a whole family grouped in exactly the same way and 
praying with exactly the same fervour for the restoration 
to health of — a sick cow! 

The Apfelbauer^ s joints were aching rather worse than 
usual to-day, and therefore it took Ulrica a longer time 
than usual to convince him that his dissolution was not 
imminent, and that there remained plenty of leisure for 
him to make any arrangements he might wish with regard 
to the -measurements of the cross that was to mark his last 
resting-place. She was still occupied in discussing this 


212 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


point with him — after having first blown out all the tapers 
and dismissed the much relieved children to their evening 
romp — when the door of the house was burst open by a 
breathless lad who had come in search of the Grafin. 

There was a gentleman at the Marienhof, he declared, 
who had arrived by the Stellwage?!, and who wished to 
speak to the Grafin immediately. 

Ulrica rose quickly from her chair ; the blood had rushed 
to her face, hot and irrepressible. 

‘ I will come,’ she said, in a voice which trembled. She 
knew of only one man who could possibly look for her 
here, in this corner of the world, and after all these weeks 
of wearing doubt, of dark uncertainty, what a relief to set 
eyes upon his face again, if only for one passing second, 
and even though at the cost of a worse pain to follow. 
Every other consideration vanished before this thought. 

It was a clear, starry night as she stepped out into the 
street in the company of the small messenger, whose way 
home happened to be much the same as her own. The 
night was cold and the boy was taciturn, and though more 
than one question was burning on Ulrica’s lips, she could 
not at once summon courage to speak. One word might 
dispel the whole fabric of hope which had so suddenly 
sprung to life. 

‘Are you certain that he — the gentleman — asked for 
me ? ’ she began at length, just as they came within sight 
of the Marienhof. 

‘ Eh r said the boy, issuing from his comforter ; ‘ to be 
sure they asked for you. I took them to the Marienhof 
and left them there.’ 

‘ They ? ’ said Ulrica, her heart suddenly sinking. ‘ Is 
there more than one gentleman f And did he — did they, 
I mean, not know the way to the Marienhof ? ’ 

‘Not a bit of it; he doesn’t even seem able to speak 
properly, the funny old gentleman. It was the Herr Notar 
who had to speak for him. The Herr Notar came with 
him in the Stellwagen' 

The stars which a minute ago had sparkled so clearly in 
the frosty air seemed all at once to be burning dull. A 
sense of disappointment which left no room for curiosity 


CERTAINTY. 


213 


had come over Ulrica. It was without any excitement 
that she reached the door of the Marienhof and opened it. 

There were two people in the room. The one she saw 
first was the same leather-faced, sharp-eyed, sparrow-like 
individual who, after her father’s death, had acted in the 
name of the law by placing the official seal upon his 
effects. The sight of his face carried her back with a 
sharp pang of memory to the day of the funeral. But 
surely some change had come over him since that day ? 
She could not remember that she had on that occasion 
been honoured by so ludicrously profound an inclination 
as the one by which he now greeted her entry. What was 
the matter with the man ? 

The second person in the room was an elderly gentle- 
man whom she had never seen before. He stood a little 
apart from the notary and was gazing around him with an 
air of mild stupefaction. Just as Ulrica entered, his at- 
tention was absorbed by the green stove, which he was 
contemplating from a respectful distance, as though not 
absolutely convinced that it might not explode if touched. 
Upon the table a small black leather bag was standing be- 
side the pewter candlestick. 

‘You wish to speak to me?’ asked Ulrica, standing still 
just within the doorway. 

The elderly gentleman turned. He did not speak at 
once. He looked at Ulrica first and then at the notary. 
There was a perfectly distinct question in that glance, and 
the nod which the notary gave was a perfectly distinct an- 
swer. ‘ It is she,’ the nod replied. 

‘ I believe I am addressing Countess Eldringen ? ’ said 
the stranger in English, and in a tone of unmistakable dis- 
may. A minute ago, Mr. Dunnet — for it was he — as he 
gazed round at the rustic furniture and the whitewashed 
walls, had been saying to himself, with many a mental 
headshake : ‘ This will never do.’ But it was only now, 
when, on turning, he found himself standing opposite to 
a young woman in full peasant costume, who was indicated 
to him as Countess Eldringen, that, for one minute, his 
native coolness threatened to desert him. With a deepen- 
ing conviction he repeated to himself that really this would 


214 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

never do at all, even while he was punctiliously bowing his 
head before the personage of whom in his secret heart he 
felt it his duty to disapprove. 

‘I am Countess Eldringen. Will you please tell me 
who you are and what you have come for ? My time is 
very much engaged. I cannot be at your disposal for 
more than five minutes,’ she added, with a glance at the 
clock. Oddly enough, she did not immediately guess at a 
connection between this strange Englishman and her cousin 
Gilbert Nevyll. She was still too much taken up with her 
disappointment to have cast about for an explanation of 
the visit. 

At the imperiously spoken question Mr. Dunnet looked 
up more keenly. She was standing in the full light now, 
her proudly poised head and tall figure revealed. ‘ There 
is no saying whether it may not do, after all,’ was the law- 
yer’s inward reflection. ‘ Her accent is foreign, but it is 
not offensive, and, thank Heaven, her h's seem all right.’ 

‘ I am afraid it will take rather more than five minutes 
to explain to you the reason of my coming,’ he said aloud, 
while the shadow of a smile played round his clean-shaven 
lips. ‘ My name is Dunnet. I have hitherto been en- 
trusted with the management of the Nevyll property 
and — ’ 

Ulrica made a quick step forward. ‘ You have brought 
me a message,’ she said breathlessly. 

‘ I have brought you a — a piece of news,’ corrected Mr. 
Dunnet, ‘but, as I say, there are certain explanations 
which must precede the — the announcement I have to 
make. If you will be so good as to be seated for a few 
minutes, I hope to make the case clear to you.’ 

Mechanically Ulrica sat down on the chair which, with 
old-fashioned courtesy, Mr. Dunnet had placed for her. 
She felt that to comply would be the quickest way to get 
at the truth she was thirsting for. 

‘ I do not know,’ began the lawyer, who remained stand- 
ing beside the table, ‘ I do not know how far you are 
aware of the exact degree of relationship between yourself 
and the English family of Nevyll. Your grandmother — ’ 

‘Yes, yes, I know, he is my cousin,’ broke in Ulrica. 


CERTAINTY. 2 1 5 

* Did he send you ? Tell me quickly what you have to 
say.’ 

‘It is not Sir Gilbert Nevyll who has sent me,’ and a 
shade of surprise crossed Mr. Dunnet’s face, ‘ if it is to 
him you refer — ’ 

‘ Then he is dead,’ said Ulrica, turning as white as wax 
up to the roots of her hair, as she rose from her seat. ‘ I 
think I have known it all along. Tell me the truth : is 
my cousin Gilbert dead ? ’ 

‘ I was not aware that there was any personal acquaint- 
ance,’ stammered Mr. Dunnet, entirely taken aback. Ul- 
rica had clasped her hands before her face. At Mr. 
Dunnet’s remark she dropped them and cast a dazed 
glance around her. His astonishment had recalled her to 
herself. 

‘ No, to be sure,’ she said slowly, as she sat down again, 
‘ who says that I knew him ? His death can be nothing 
to me. Did you say he was dead f ’ and she looked with 
wide, grey eyes at the lawyer. 

‘ The duty of announcing his death to you is one of the 
reasons of my troubling you with my presence to-day.’ 

There was no perceptible change on Ulrica’s face this 
time ; only the hands clasped in her lap v/ere clasped a 
little tighter. For some moments she sat quite still, staring 
at the boards at her feet. 

‘ I fear I have been too abrupt,’ began Mr. Dunnet. 

She raised her head with sudden fierceness. ‘ What are 
you talking of ? Why should you not be abrupt ? What 
possible reason can you have for supposing — ’ and an 
angry streak of red broke through the pallor of her cheek 
— ‘ that this — this news should agitate me ? He was not — 
not a very near relation — I don’t even understand why 
you should announce it to me at all. Why should I need 
to know ? Why are you here still ? Have you anything 
more to say ? ’ 

‘ I have this to say,’ said Mr. Dunnet, not moving from 
his place beside the table : ‘ that in consequence of the 
extinction of the Nevyll line, you, as the nearest living 
relative, are the undisputed heiress to the entire Nevyll 
fortune.’ 


2i6 a queen of curds and cream. 

Ulrica looked blankly at the speaker. What he said 
sounded quite rational so far as grammar and phraseology 
were concerned, but the sense of it seemed somehow to 
elude her grasp in this moment of poignant emotion. Her 
cousin Gilbert was dead — up to that point everything was 
frightfully clear, beyond it all was dark. 

‘ I suppose there is no doubt,’ she began, after a pause, 
during which Mr. Dunnet had waited in respectful and 
somewhat anxious silence for the result of his second an- 
nouncement. This time he was certain that he had been 
too abrupt, and he had meant to break the news so gently. 
It was her fierce questioning which had thrown him off his 
balance. Deeply impressed as he was by the magnitude 
of the announcement he had to make, Mr. Dunnet had 
come here in some trepidation. He had more than once 
read of cases in which men who had won the big prize in 
a lottery had either dropped down dead or gone raving 
mad from sheer excitement. And here he had a young 
woman to deal with — a material with which he had never 
been very familiar — and no lottery-prize could be more 
unexpected than this accession of fortune. 

Ulrica’s first words, spoken in a tone which sounded 
quite sane, were an immense relief to the lawyer’s mind. 

‘ No doubt whatever. Countess. The case is quite clear, 
though the contingency is certainly unforeseen. There is 
no one else whose claim — ’ 

‘ But it is not that I am speaking of, I mean about his 
death ; it was in the fire, of course ? Did they — ’ a shud- 
der passed over her — ‘ did they find his body ? ’ 

Mr. Dunnet shook his head. 

‘ Despite the most careful seai’ches, no trace has been 
found. Unfortunately, however, the inquiries which I per- 
sonally conducted leave no margin for any doubt. If you 
will lend me your attention for a few minutes longer, I 
shall convince you that no trouble has been spared to get 
at the truth.’ 

He drew the black leather bag towards him, and un- 
locking it, took out various large, official-looking sheets of 
paper. Having stated the circumstances to her at some 
length, he laid these sheets before her one after the other, 


CERTAINTY. 


217 


accompanying each with a few words of explanation. 
They were the written declarations, made under oath, of 
the various witnesses who had been called upon for their 
evidence — that of the head-waiter of the hotel Comniis- 
sio?taire, of the driver, the ticket-seller, and the box-keeper. 
Taken together they formed a chain of proof which led to 
one inevitable conclusion. Ulrica took the sheets one by 
one, as they were handed to her, read them through from 
beginning to end, and laid them down again without a 
word. She was wondering to herself why Mr. D unnet 
should take so much trouble to convince her of a fact of 
which she felt already so hopelessly convinced. She knew 
now that in her innermost soul she had despaired ever 
since the day when the news of the fire had reached the 
village. Then Mr. D unnet, having gathered the larger 
sheets together and returned them to his bag, produced a 
smaller, stiffer sheet, which he likewise laid before Ulrica. 

‘ What is that ? ’ she asked listlessly. 

‘ It is the certificate of death of Sir Ernest Nevyll, who 
was in possession of the title — though he was unaware 
of the fact — for exactly one week. By his death the title 
becomes extinct, and the fortune passes into your posses- 
sion.’ 

‘ I don’t believe that,’ said Ulrica indifferently, ‘ I don’t 
want the money ; there must be somebody else to take it.’ 

‘ Allow me to state the case ; it is perfectly simple. I 
am afraid I must trouble you with a little genealogy. 
Eighty years ago Sir Francis Nevyll was the head of the 
family ; he had two children, a son and a daughter ; the 
son ’ — here Mr. D unnet referred to a note-book in his 
hand — ‘succeeded him in 1828 as Sir Arthur Nevyll; this 
Sir Arthur had two sons, of whom the eldest. Sir Gilbert, 
came to the title in 1865. It is he who has perished in 
this truly frightful affair. His younger brother, George, 
died in 1876 of consumption, leaving one son, the same 
Sir Ernest the certificate of whose death is lying before 
you at this moment. Sir Gilbert was childless, and Sir 
Ernest was unmarried. I hope you follow me ? ’ 

Ulrica gave a faint sign of assent, and Mr. Dunnet 
continued speaking: 


2i8 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


‘ These two deaths, following so rapidly upon one an- 
other, led to a contingency entirely unforeseen. Sir Ernest 
had always been considered as Sir Gilbert’s heir, and since 
he was betrothed and within a few weeks of his wedding, 
nothing seemed more unlikely than an abrupt extinction of 
the family. It was only when, having concluded the in- 
quiries in Vienna, I returned to England and investigated 
the matter, that the actual state of things became clear to 
me. You must know that at the time of Sir Gilbert’s mar- 
riage all his real property was settled, in the first place, on his 
possible children, failing these, on his brother George and 
his children, and failing all these, on the Eldringen family — 
that is, the descendants of Eleonore Nevyll. I have told 
you that the Sir Francis whom I have mentioned had a 
daughter as well as a son ; this daughter, Eleonore 
Nevyll, was married in 1825 to Count Heinrich Eldringen. 
Of this marriage there were two children, the eldest being 
your father. Count Emil Eldringen, of whom you are the 
only child. By the terms of the settlement you are there- 
fore undoubtedly the rightful claimant of the bulk of the 
landed estates ; but this is not all. Four years after his 
marriage. Sir Gilbert made a will by which he left all his 
property, real and personal, not under settlement — a few 
inconsiderable legacies excepted — to the inheritor of the 
settled property, which at that time he never doubted 
would be his nephew Ernest.’ 

Mr. Dunnet paused with the point of his pencil on his 
note-book. Surely it was time for the new-made heiress 
to show some further sign of life. 

‘ Go on,’ said Ulrica, not because she was listening to 
what he said, but because under cover of his even, monot- 
onous speech she could more conveniently follow her own 
thoughts, which were dragging her along in one irresistible 
channel. 

Mr. Dunnet appeared somewhat discomfited. 

‘Well, to tell the truth. Countess, there does not remain 
much that I can go on to. I fancied I had explained the 
case sufficiently. I hope you will not resent the delay 
which has occurred; but it took me some considerable 
time and trouble to work out the matter, as well as to trace 


CERTAINTY. 


219 


you to your present abode.’ He coughed a short, dry 
cough, and cast a disapproving glance round the room. 
‘ It was finally from your aunt. Countess Minart, that I 
obtained the clue to your address. In order to avoid all 

possible mistake as to identity, the authorities of S ’ 

(he named a neighbouring town on the plain), ‘ to whom I 
applied, allowed this gentleman to accompany me.’ Mr. 
Dunnet, by a motion of his hand, indicated the notary, who 
all this time had been modestly hovering in the back- 
ground. ‘ I think I have said all that need be said to- 
day ; it remains for me only to receive your orders with 
regard to your journey to England, which, as I presume, 
will take place immediately. Your being on the spot to 
take personal possession of the estates will simplify many 
matters of detail.’ 

The lawyer, as he spoke, was not in the least aware of 
the tinge of servility in his tone. If a hundred family law- 
yers had been put up in a row, this particular family lawyer 
might have been picked out as a pearl among his kind ; 
but eighty thousand a year is eighty thousand a year, and 
human nature is human nature, and Mr. Dunnet, honest 
servant though he was, would need to have been something 
more or less than a man if unconsciously he had not bent 
his back a very little before the person whom he himself 
had come to invest with that awful power which money 
can give. He had served Sir Gilbert faithfully and long, 
and he mourned him sincerely ; but Sir Gilbert had passed 
away, his star had gone down forever, while the star of 
this girl before him was only just rising, to shine, in all 
human probability, for years and years after even the 
memory of the unfortunate baronet and his tragical fate 
should be forgotten. 

‘ I don’t want to go to England,’ said Ulrica, awaking 
as though from a dream, ‘ I don’t want to take the money, 
— why, it was his money, don’t you understand ? I could 
never bear to let him give me even a penny ; it would kill 
me. I will never take it, do you hear ? I want to stay 
where I am.’ 

' One moment, if you please.’ Mr. Dunnet spoke now 
in the tolerant tone of a reasonable human being who is 


220 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


attempting to argue with an unreasonable one. He had 
never, it is true, heard of any case in which the sudden 
unhinging of intellect produced by an overwhelming acces- 
sion of fortune had taken the shape of the fortune being 
refused, yet he could scarcely doubt that this was the case 
here. ‘ One moment, if you please. There is no question 
of anything being given to you, the money is nobody’s but 
your own. You can refuse to spend it, of course. And 
naturally you are free not to set up your residence in Eng- 
land, should you prefer this country — no one has any right 
to interfere with your personal wishes — but even your per- 
sonal wishes cannot alter the fact that the whole of the 
Nevyll estates and fortune are now in your undisputed 
possession.’ 

Ulrica put her hand to her forehead. ‘ Estates,’ ‘ fort- 
une,’ ‘ residence,’ what connection could thereT)e between 
them and her? In this same helpless bewilderment she 
listened to his further explanations and arguments, which 
finally merged into respectful entreaties. Would she not 
reconsider her resolution and consent to visit England? 
He himself would scarcely know how to undertake the 
responsibility of managing so vast a fortune without her 
authority to back him up. ‘ I will have nothing to do 
with it,’ was the only answer Ulrica made ; ‘ I want to stay 
where I am.’ 

‘ There is nothing to prevent your staying where you 
are ! ’ cried Mr. Dunnet in despair, his eloquence being 
exhausted ; ‘ but surely you must understand that I cannot 
go back to England with that for your only answer.’ 

‘ I want to be left in peace. Oh, go away, leave me 
alone ! ’ she cried, with a burst of irrepressible impatience ; 

‘ I am so tired, so tired, after all these months! ’ 

It was then that Mr. Dunnet turned resignedly to his 
inexhaustible black bag and drew out of its depths yet 
another sheet of paper which, as he minutely explained, 
was an authorisation to act in her name, and which, after a 
further passage of arms, and by holding out the prospect of 
his immediate departure as a bribe, he induced her to sign. 

‘ And have you absolutely no orders to give me ? ’ in- 
quired the lawyer submissively. 


A NEW PASSION. 


221 


* None, except that I want to be left in peace.’ 

Mr. Dunnet took up his black bag, cast one more glance 
round the room, as though he were calling on the tables 
and chairs to be witness of this unheard-of thing, then, 
having looked again into Ulrica’s face and seen no signs 
of relenting, he moved dejectedly towards the door. ‘ I 
suppose I had better go before she turns me out,’ was the 
thought in his mind. 

A few minutes later he was walking down the lane to- 
wards the road, with the notary hopping by his side and 
the black bag in his hand. He did not feel quite certain 
whether he was walking on his head or on his heels. This 
afternoon, while he approached Glockenau, he had at- 
tempted to beguile the monotony of the journey by sketching 
out in his mind the various shapes which the interview might 
be expected to take. The new heiress might be vulgar, 
she might be stupid, she might be a virago — he thought 
he had been prepared for anything, but no, — he had cer- 
tainly not been prepared for this. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

A NEW PASSION. 

There was no sleep for Ulrica that night. Until day- 
light came she paced the floor, or sat for hours with her 
hands clasped in her lap, staring before her with wide, 
vacant eyes. One sentence rang forever in her ears, the 
words which Nandi’s mother had quavered out in her fool- 
ish fear: ‘ O God, what a terrible way to die! ’ 

It was true, then. It was no longer possible or probable, 
it was ^rue. Though she should live for fifty years more 
she could never hear his voice again, though she should 
travel to the uttermost ends of the earth she could not find 
him, — he was gone, the world was empty of him for ever- 
more. 

What was it — in the name of Heaven, what was it that 


222 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

had ailed her before to-day ? What had she had to complain 
of before the final sealing of his fate ? Had she not been 
treading the same earth that he had trodden, and had not 
one sun shone upon them both ? She had had all that, 
and she had dared to be not content ? And here the hor- 
ror did not end with death alone. Not only had he no 
longer any place in the world, but even those six feet of 
earth which the poorest has a right to claim had been 
denied him. As though stung by the lash of an invisible 
whip, Ulrica started up and recommenced her restless pac- 
ing of the floor. She thought of people who could go to 
pray daily on the graves of those they had loved, who 
could deck the cold mounds with flowers, and press their 
lips against the stone, and in this moment it seemed to her 
that those people were not to be pitied, but to be envied. 
But as for her, though she should ransack the whole 
Marienhof garden to bind a funeral wreath, where should 
she hang it when bound ? She might as well tear it petal 
from petal and strew it to the four winds of heaven. 

If she could have wept, the relief would have been un- 
speakable, but her grief was not simple enough to let her 
weep so easily. So carefully had her heart been hardened 
against this man, that not even the storm of agony w^hich 
had swept over her had sufficed to break her stubborn 
pride. She had loved him, she loved him still — she had 
given up all attempt to deny that it was so ; but she still 
told herself, with a sort of desperate defiance, that she had 
loved an unworthy man. That he had perished so trag- 
ically could not diminish his guilt, though it might wring 
her heart with pity. Ail night long did this poignant pity 
struggle with the bitterness that was so deeply ingrained. 
He had been treacherous and false, yes — but ‘O God!’ 
— and again she would crouch down shuddering — ‘what 
a terrible way to die ! ’ 

It was almost morning when her tears came at last, and 
she fell into exhausted slumber. 

As for the second piece of news which Mr. Dunnet had 
brought her, the one which he considered to be the chief 
announcement, she had not so much as taken it into con- 
sideration. It was not exactly that she disbelieved what 


A NEW PASSION. 


223 


he had told her, she had even in a sort of mechanical way- 
followed his explanations, but the whole idea seemed to 
her distant and unreal. Moreover, there was something 
unnatural and startling in the thought that she should 
inherit her cousin Gilbert’s fortune ; if she thought of 
the thing at all, it was to turn with an instinctive repulsion 
from the idea of taking his money. 

When she awoke after that exhausted sleep, she dragged 
herself up and went about her work exactly as usual, sweep- 
ing the floor, lighting the fire, and peeling the potatoes, just 
as though she were exactly the same person she had been 
yesterday. Work was her one bulwark against despair, 
and the reflection that there was no more need for her to 
work never once came near her. 

At the end of about a week there came a letter from 
Mr. Dunnet. It was dated from London, and contained a 
respectful inquiry as to whether he had her authority for 
continuing the drainage of the sea-marsh on the Morton 
Hall estate, which had been commenced under Sir Gilbert’s 
father, and which was yearly adding considerably to the 
value of the estate. There were four pages of explana- 
tions concerning sea-banks, and canals, and central drains, 
which was all Greek to Ulrica. She tossed the letter aside 
and did not so much as answer it, and yet Mr. Dunnet’s 
epistle had not been without its effect. If it did nothing 
else, it brought the reality of the tremendous change in her 
position within her comprehension. The first mists of 
bewilderment were beginning slowly to clear away, and 
though her determination never wavered for a moment, yet 
her reason at least had been forced to recognise the existing 
state of things. 

In a very short time a second letter came, a great bulky 
letter this time, enclosing various papers which she was re- 
quested to sign. It was something in connection with 
rents that were being collected — this much Ulrica was 
able to understand ; and as a concession to the urgent tone 
of Mr. Dunnet’s note, and in order to guard against any 
more pressing entreaties, Ulrica somewhat ungraciously did 
as she was asked. 

Again some weeks passed, when one day early in March 

15 


2 24 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

another envelope addressed in the stiff handwriting she had 
got to know was put into her hands. Ulrica opened it 
with a sense of annoyance — was the man never going to 
stop badgering her about this sea-marsh and these farms ? 

There was nothing about the marsh or the farms, how- 
ever, in the letter this time ; there was indeed another 
paper to sign, but the word rent did not occur in it. ‘ Since 
Lady Nevyll has expressed the wish to have her jointure 
paid quarterly,’ wrote Mr. Dunnet, ' I presume you have 
no objection to the arrangement, and I should be much 
obliged by your signing and returning the enclosed docu- 
ment — which bears on the matter — at your earliest con- 
venience.’ 

Ulrica laid down the letter, and with her forehead in her 
hands plunged into a new train of thought. Never once, 
during all these months, had she troubled herself about 
Lady Nevyll. So painfully full had her thoughts been, 
that she had all but forgotten the existence of the woman 
who, after all, in one sense was her rival, the mention of 
whose name had been sufficient to dispel her short-lived 
dream of joy. Gilbert’s widow — some one who had a 
better right than she had to weep for him, who could mourn 
for him openly in the face of the world — how was it that 
she had never thought of Gilbert’s widow before ? The 
woman whom he had loved, though only passingly — the 
woman who had been his wife — Ulrica rose from her place 
and stepped to the open door. The March air was chill, 
yet not one whit too chill for her throbbing forehead. A 
new passion, born in one instant, had clutched her heart 
with a grip of iron. She could not have named this new- 
born passion, but it was jealousy, a fierce and burning 
jealousy. Together with it, as an inevitable result, curios- 
ity awoke. What was she like, this creature who had 
usurped her place, who had cheated her of her happiness ? 
Tall or short? Had she been beautiful and was she beau- 
tiful still ? more beautiful than Ulrica herself ? Were her 
eyes brighter than Ulrica’s eyes ? her skin clearer than Ul- 
rica’s skin ? By what means had she succeeded in blinding 
Gilbert to her worthlessness ? Ulrica felt that there could 
be no peace for her until she knew. She had moved from 


A NEW PASSION. 


225 


the door by this time, and stood before the little mirror on 
the wall. A triumphant smile rose to her lips as she caught 
the image there. More beautiful than she was herself? 
It was not likely. Though the mirror — not being a mirror 
in a fairy-tale — had not the gift of speech, yet its answer 
was almost as plain as though spoken in words. What a 
triumph to place herself beside her rival and to let the 
world judge between the two ; what a satisfaction to con- 
vince herself that Gilbert could never have felt for that 
other woman anything approaching to the passion he had 
conceived for her ! How was it to be done ? She knit 
her brows in perplexed thought, then after a minute she 
began to laugh. Why, she had only to do that which she 
had been pressed to do, what Mr. Dunnet, no doubt, 
thought her inexplicably eccentric for not doing ; she had 
only to go to England and see for herself. She presumed 
that Mr. Dunnet would send her money for the journey if 
she wrote for it. No doubt he would triumph at her capit- 
ulation — well, no matter, his triumph would be short. One 
single hour spent in Charlotte Nevyll’s society would prob- 
ably tell her all that she wanted to know. But she could 
not go to England for one single hour or even for one 
single day ; this much, despite her sudden agitation, she 
distinctly recognised. In order to mask her real motive a 
little time must be added. What if she were to write and 
announce herself on a visit of a few weeks? Nothing 
could sound more plausible. Then, her object once 
gained, this jealous curiosity stilled and her doubts at rest, 
she would turn her back on England and return to bury 
herself forever in her beloved Glockenau. 

The resolution once taken, Ulrica’s impatience to carry 
it into execution grew with every hour. That same day she 
wrote for the money, and carefully calculated how many 
days must necessarily elapse before she could receive it. It 
seemed to her that Mr. Dunnet was unpardonably slow, 
and yet, in point of fact, the money came as fast as the 
post would let it. The family lawyer was a great deal too 
thankful for the turn affairs were taking voluntarily to de- 
lay the arrival of the heiress even by one single day. 

The money-letter found Ulrica all ready to start ; she 


2 26 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

had employed the days of waiting in making all the prepa- 
rations necessary for her journey. The first of these prepa- 
rations had been to take out of her box the black dress she 
had worn at her father’s funeral, and carefully to iron it 
out, also to freshen up the trimming on the one hat she 
possessed. It was, of course, evident that she could not 
travel to England in peasant costume, and yet it was with 
a distinct pang of regret that she unknotted the silk hand- 
kerchief in order to try on the hat. Though the era 
marked by that handkerchief had been the one in which 
she had suffered most, yet it had likewise been the only 
one in which she had known perfect happiness. To return 
to ordinary civilised garments, even only for a time, was 
like saying good-bye to a very precious bit of her life. 

The landlady had consented to take charge of the Ma- 
rienhof during Ulrica’s absence, and to her Ulrica handed 
over the keys on the evening of her departure. 

‘ I have inherited some money,’ was the explanation she 
gave, ‘ and I am going to England for a few weeks to see 
after it.’ 

‘ Wouldn’t it be wiser to put away the plates in a cup- 
board,’ the landlady suggested, 'instead of leaving them 
to get covered with cobwebs on the shelf ? ’ For, with the 
exception of the one small trunk she took with her, every- 
thing in the Stube had been left untouched. 

‘There won’t be time for many cobwebs to be spun 
across them,’ Ulrica replied ; ‘ I have told you that I shall 
be back in less than three weeks.’ 

‘ Yes, yes, so you say now, but you have yet to see what 
you feel like in England. I don’t know where England 
is, though I have heard of there being such a country, but 
I do know what it means to inherit money, and I’ve seen 
the difference it makes in people. Didn’t the widow 
Bachmeier’s brother make her every sort of promise when 
his uncle in town made him his heir % And the end was 
that he just went away and left her to starve. Holy Bar- 
bara! You don’t expect me to believe, do you, that you’ll 
go on scrubbing floors and cooking your own dinner if 
you’ve got money enough to pay some one else to do it for 
you ? So, about these plates, if you don’t come back — ’ 


A NEW PASSION. 


227 


* I shall certainly come back/ said Ulrica indignantly ; 
‘ I should never dream of living in England. The plates 
can perfectly well remain where they are.’ 

The landlady made no further remark, but shrugged her 
shoulders and retreated to her kitchen. 

It was not till the day of departure came that Ulrica be- 
came fully aware of how fast her heart had grown to the 
little mountain village. How would her patients get on 
without her? she asked herself anxiously, as she made a 
final round and doled out the extra doses of medicine that 
were to last till her return. The round of sick-calls con- 
cluded, her steps turned instinctively towards the church- 
yard. She wanted to look again at her father’s grave and 
at that of Pater Sepp. It was while she was standing be- 
tween the two that she all at once became aware of the 
tears that dimmed her eyes. She dashed them away im- 
patiently. 

‘ I wonder what I am crying for,’ she said, with a smile. 
‘ I am not saying good-bye to the place. Why should I 
not be standing on the same spot again this day month ? 
There is nothing to prevent me.’ 

Yet, for all her reasoning, the last moment was a hard 
one. 

‘ I shall be back, I shall be back very soon,’ she kept re- 
peating to herself, when already the Stellwagen was in 
motion and the figure of the landlady waving her a fare- 
well from the door of the ‘ Golden Sun ’ had begun to 
grow indistinct. She looked up at the windows of her own 
Marienhof as she passed under them, and for one moment 
her resolution almost tottered, but it was too late to re- 
treat. In her pocket lay Mr. Dunnet’s letter, full of a 
respectful yet exultant greeting to the new mistress of 
Morton Hall. All preparations should be made for her 
reception, he assured her; all that he begged for was a 
telegram from Calais to announce the time of her arrival. 
The step was irretrievably taken. One more long glance 
at the jumble of rustic roofs, scarcely freed yet from their 
latest burden of snow, at the orchards, lifeless still indeed, 
yet ready to burst into blossom at the first touch of sun- 
shine, at the black, unchangeable pine trees, sternly un- 


228 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


moved by the approach of spring — and in the next minute 
the Stellwagen had jolted around a bend in the road, and 
Glockenau was out of sight. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

PLAYMATES. 

Most of us know how, when things begin to ' happen,* 
they have a way of happening in so rapid a succession 
that one event seems to tread on the heels of the last. 
After flowing on for years in unbroken monotony, the 
stream of life reaches a point where its progress becomes 
a series of wild leaps down precipitous ledges, hurling us, 
breathless and bewildered, from one unknown depth into 
another. 

This was Charlotte Nevyll’s experience. Her marriage 
had been the last landmark in her life. Of a sudden, 
however, the stagnation which bore the false appearance 
of calm was convulsed to its very depth. It had not been 
the news of the Vienna catastrophe which had given the 
first check ; the change had begun before then. Charlotte 
had come home on what was to be a flying visit of a 
month or so — a sort of stepping-stone between Valerie Bad 
and Florence, where she had a vague idea of wintering — 
and on a certain dark October afternoon had set out to 
pay one of a round of calls which bore the mingled stamp 
of ‘ newly returned ’ and ‘ farewell ’ appearance. 

It was past six when the brougham returned from Col- 
lingwood, yet Lady Nevyll, who, on leaving home, had 
settled herself so languidly in her corner, now sat upright 
and wide awake, while a faint tinge of colour glowed in 
her cheeks. For the first time for many years she sprang 
out of the carriage without assistance, and having, on 
reaching her room, dismissed her wondering maid, she sat 
down, still cloaked and bonneted, on the nearest chair, 
and pressed her trembling fingers against her temples. 


PLAYMATES. 


229 


On this afternoon she had met again, after nineteen 
years, the man whose love she had renounced for the sake 
of her ambition. 

During all these years, except for some stray months of 
leave, Basil Rockingham had been absent from England, 
moving from one embassy to another. It was only lately 
that, having resigned his appointment, he had returned 
home in order to superintend the efforts and keep warm 
the ardor of some influential friends, who were paving the 
way for him towards the yet higher post which for long 
had been the object of his ambition. 

There had been a good many people in the Colling- 
wood drawing-room when Charlotte entered, and the lights 
had not yet been brought. Various hands had been put 
out and various names had been murmured. At the sound 
of one of the names, Charlotte had started and peered 
keenly at the person before her. Had she heard aright? 
Could it be 1 Rockingham was not a very usual name. 
She was still saying this to herself when the lamp was car- 
ried in along with the tea, and Charlotte discovered that 
she was standing face to face with her lover of olden days. 

‘ Basil ! ’ The word had escaped from her lips before 
she was aware of it, even as the blood rushed to her face. 
It was by good luck alone that the rest of the company 
had gravitated to the tea-table, and that the much-interested 
hostess was the only witness of this small interlude. 

Mr. Rockingham took her outstretched hand somewhat 
doubtfully. Twenty years alter a woman more than they 
do a man, and Mr. Rockingham, besides, was not the sort 
of man who ever alters much. 

‘ Old acquaintances, I see,’ remarked Mrs. Byrd, with a 
kindly if somewhat vacant smile. ‘You had better sit 
down here, you must have lots to say to each other. I’ll 
get you a cup of tea in the meantime.’ 

‘ We have been playmates in our day,’ said Mr. Rock- 
ingham, with a perfectly unembarrassed smile. He was 
sure of his ground now, her eyes had given him the clue 
he required. 

And then they had sat down side by side, and despite the 
strangers all round, it had seemed to Charlotte that they two 


230 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

were alone in the room. Just nineteen years ago they had 
sat together in just such a dark October afternoon, but it 
had been on a bank of withered grass and with a carpet of 
dead leaves at their feet ; the half-stripped beech trees had 
stood sentinel all round, and instead of this gay chatter 
there had been the cawing of rooks overhead. Was he, 
too, thinking of that day ? Did that word ' good-bye ’ still 
ring in his ears as it was ringing in hers ? 

Yes, they had been playmates, these two, Basil and 
Charlotte, long before they had been lovers. The small 
south English parsonage of which her father had been 
rector was divided by scarcely a mile of green fields from 
the plain brick house in which Doctor Rockingham, after 
years of blistering and plastering, had set himself down to 
enjoy his well-earned rest, among the choicest plum and 
peach trees — for in laying aside the lancet, the doctor had 
taken up the pruning knife. The doctor’s only son was 
several years older than the rector’s youngest daughter ; it 
was therefore not so much a similarity in their age as a 
similarity in their tastes which drew them together. It was 
always for Charlotte that Basil used to gather the finest 
peaches on the garden walls ; always for Charlotte that he 
used to carve boats to sail on the parsonage pond. He 
carved the boats so neatly and with so steady a hand that 
his fingers never showed any of those unsightly gashes with 
which the average schoolboy’s hand is generally decorated, 
and she sailed them so circumspectly that her mother 
could not remember ever having had to scold her for wet 
clothes. And where, too, should a fresh frock have come 
from, supposing this one to have been drenched? The 
little Chattie knew very well that there was no great store 
in the press, and the idea of having to go to church on 
Sunday in a frock which had obviously been ironed once 
too often was one which weighed heavily on her mind. 
To conclude from this that Charlotte’s dominant fault was 
vanity would be a great mistake. If she threw envious 
glances at the costume worn by the little girl of her own 
age whose golden curls lighted up the gloom of the 
carved family pew which belonged to Norby Castle, the 
great house of the neighbourhood, it was not for the sake 


PLAYMATES. 


231 


of the fine clothes themselves, but rather because of the 
magic reflection of ‘ High Life ’ which they bore. The 
clothes were only a small part of the whole ; there were 
many other things more dazzling still — the carriage at the 
church door with the emblazoned panels, the liveried ser- 
vants, the tenants who stood with bared heads while Lord 
Norby came down the churchyard path with Lady Norby 
on his arm. It all opened to her visions of another world. 
Next time that her father took her out to drive, the shabby 
old pony-carriage would appear to her ten times more 
shabby than usual. 

The discontent fermenting within this small soul was 
kept tightly locked up. Her sisters would never have un- 
derstood ; their narrow horizon contented them entirely. 
The only person to whom she ever opened her heart was 
Basil. Basil, somehow, not only understood but obviously 
sympathised with her sentiments. Also he could give her 
information about that great world after whose brilliancy 
she secretly sighed, for Basil was being educated at Har- 
row. Most people had thrown up their hands when Doc- 
tor Rockingham sent his son to Harrow, and talked of the 
desire to cut a dash ; but in point of fact it was not the 
doctor who had sent his son to Harrow, it was the son 
who had sent himself. From the time of his babyhood 
the father’s will had never had a chance against that of the 
son. When still in the nursery he had always chosen his 
own toys and settled the direction of his walks for himself ; 
when, therefore, he decreed that Harrow was the only place 
at which he could be properly educated, there was nothing 
to do but to submit. 

It was during the Easter holidays after his first term at 
Harrow that Basil delighted Charlotte by the descriptions 
of all that he had seen and heard and guessed at within 
the last three months, for the most valuable information 
he had picked up in this short space was by no means that 
which he had learnt from books. The estimate of life 
which he had formed for himself at fourteen proved to 
have been so correct that he saw no reason for materially 
altering it at thirty. 

‘ If you want to play a part in the world,’ he explained 


232 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

to the attentive Charlotte, ' there are two things you’ve got 
to have : money and push. I’ve got the push, and I shall 
manage to get the money for myself.’ 

It was in the beech-grove adjoining the rectory ground 
that these views were being discussed. Here the ground 
swelled up and down between the trees in irregular ridges, 
making it the very place to sit in because of the perfect 
choice of green banks. In one corner of the beech-grove 
there was a rookery, and at this season there were many 
soft sounds to be heard up there in the branches, subdued 
rustlings and chirpings and the discreet flapping of maternal 
wings. 

‘ But how will you manage to get the money ? ’ Charlotte 
asked. 

‘ Somehow,’ answered Basil, with magnificent vagueness. 
‘ There are lots of ways in which a fellow who has got 
“push” can manage that. I’ve only got to marry a girl 
who has got lots of her own, for instance.’ 

‘ To be sure,’ agreed Charlotte, thoughtfully. 

‘ And what you've got to do,’ added Basil, as an after- 
thought, ' is to marry a fellow who has got lots of his own.’ 

‘ But then, Basil, we can never marry each other,’ with 
a vague pang at her nine-year-old heart. 

‘ Marry each other? I should think not.’ He smiled a 
superior smile. ‘ You’ll have to marry the richest man you 
meet. You’ll have your chances, too. Do you know that 
you’re going to turn out jolly pretty one of these days ? ’ 

^ Am I really ? ’ she said, colouring with pleasure ; and it 
was from that day forward that she began to take an in- 
terest in her own looks. In Charlotte’s looks, quite as 
much as in the similarity of their tastes, might have been 
found the explanation of Basil’s preference for her society ; 
for, despite his keen eye for the practical aspect of life, he 
was anything but blind to its more ornamental side, and it 
amused him a great deal better to talk to the pretty Char- 
lotte than to her four plain sisters. They were wonder- 
fully like each other, these sisters, the pretty one included ; 
all fair, all slender, all blue-eyed, and yet, with the excep- 
tion of Charlotte, all absolutely insignificant. It w^as al- 
most as though Nature, having determined to work after a 


PLAYMATES. 


233 


certain fixed pattern, had blundered over the first attempts, 
feeling her way, as it were, towards perfection, until, after 
four distinct failures, she had at length, at the fifth attempt, 
achieved a success. In Edith, for instance, the slender- 
ness had been decidedly overdone, while Clementina’s hair 
had turned out sandy and Maria’s eyes had been designed 
a trifle too round. It was in Charlotte, and only in Char- 
lotte, that the right mixture of elements had at length been 
hit upon and the idea brought to perfection. 

And thus the years passed. Basil and Charlotte met 
only during the holidays, but were then almost inseparable. 
The elder Miss Dicksons instinctively avoided the beech- 
grove, and the rector and the doctor winked knowingly at 
each other. Neither of the parents doubted for a moment 
that this was going to be a match. 

When it became known that Basil inclined towards 
diplomacy, people again threw up their hands. Diplo- 
macy, of all things in the world! The son of a simple 
country doctor! As if everybody did not know that the 
first indispensable requirements for success in a diplomatic 
career were money and high connections. ‘ And who says 
that I shall not yet attain both ? ’ Basil would suavely re- 
ply. Meanwhile he was studying law at Cambridge, 
whither he had decreed that he should go on leaving Har- 
row. This resolution of his son’s had made it necessary 
for the old doctor to tear himself away from his beloved 
peach trees and to resume his medical practice, for by this 
time the whole of the hardly earned savings had melted 
away. It was a well-invested capital, as Basil assured his 
father, and would bring in fruit a hundredfold. Of course 
it was hard upon the governor to have to put his shoulder 
to the wheel again, and it cost Basil a distinct and perfectly 
genuine stab in the heart to have to accept the sacrifice, 
yet the idea of not accepting it never even occurred to him. 

At last there came a day when Basil, on his return 
home, found that his little playmate had suddenly turned 
into a young lady. It was on a bright August afternoon 
that the meeting took place. Basil had never doubted 
that Charlotte was going to turn out well, but it was not 
until he saw her advancing towards him in her white dress, 


234 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

along the sunlit garden-path, that he realised how even 
more than ^ jolly pretty ’ she had become. She was one of 
those women who step from childhood to womanhood al- 
most without any intermediate period — a bud that bursts 
into flower overnight. Her form had rounded, her eyes 
had deepened, her every movement was softened by a 
new-born grace. When last he had seen her she had been 
a lanky, awkward child : six months had done it all. It 
was not so much her beauty in itself, as the surprise at the 
transformation, which was now working on Basil. The 
consciousness of it rushed upon him unawares, putting his 
usually so well-regulated circulation almost out of order for 
a minute or so. 

On Charlotte’s side, too, there was a quite new shyness, 
which added to the intoxication that was stealing over his 
senses. It was difficult to say how it happened exactly, 
whether it was the surprise which had done the mischief, 
or whether the magic of the slanting sunbeams and the 
drowsy murmuring of the bees among the flowers had any- 
thing to do with it ; but all at once the charms of his future 
career seemed to grow strangely indistinct to Basil’s mind, 
and when presently the doctor and the rector disappeared 
into the house under some ridiculously transparent pretext, 
and when, turning to the nymph beside him, he discovered 
that she was trembling under his gaze — no, it was not possi- 
ble to say how it had come about exactly, but in another 
minute their eyes had met, then, without a word being said, 
their hands sought each other’s, and then — still without any 
word being necessary — his lips had touched hers, and in 
one long lingering kiss their doom was sealed. Now that 
it was done, it seemed so ridiculous ever to have supposed 
that it could have come to anything but this. 

There followed a rapturous evening ; soft whisperings in 
the rose-clad arbour, delicious wanderings along the garden 
paths, and finally supper in the same rose-clad arbour, 
enlivened by the almost boisterous spirits — not of the 
newly engaged couple, for Basil could not have been 
boisterous to save his life — but of the two delighted 
parents. 

To Charlotte it seemed all like a piece out of somebody 


PLAYMATES. 


235 


else’s life. The same feeling of unreality was upon her 
still as she walked home through the clover-scented fields 
with Basil by her side. It was not until the wicket-gate 
had fallen to behind her departing lover, that a faint feel- 
ing of uneasiness began to steal over her. By the time she 
reached the solitude of her own bedroom she was already 
half sobered. 

When her sister Maria, with whom she shared the room, 
entered, Charlotte was sitting plunged in her reflections. 
Maria came up and embraced her effusively. She was 
likewise engaged to be married, and was only Avaiting until 
her very worthy young curate should have scraped together 
pennies enough to start the housekeeping. 

‘ I’ve been thinking that we might be married on the 
same day,’ said Maria, presently, as she brushed out her 
hair. ‘ Don’t you think it’s a good idea. Chatty ? ’ 

‘ I — I don’t know,’ said Chatty, without any enthusiasm. 

‘ It Avould certainly be more convenient,’ pursued the ir- 
repressible Maria. ‘ It would save the expense of one 
whole wedding-breakfast; the same wedding-cake might 
almost do for us both; and,’ added Maria, with a light- 
hearted laugh, ‘ they might throw the same slippers after 
us.’ 

Chatty made no reply ; there was a slight sinking at her 
heart. Was this what she had come to? 

It was in a state of mind which can best be described 
as something half-way between a glow and a chill that 
Charlotte fell asleep that night. 

When she met Basil next day, it almost seemed as 
though he, too, in the meantime, had been making his re- 
flections. At any rate, this second meeting was a very 
much quieter affair than the first. The two lovers glanced 
furtively into each other’s faces, as though in the hope of 
surprising each other’s thoughts unawares. Charlotte ap- 
peared absent-minded, and Basil was strangely thoughtful. 

Several weeks passed in this way ; the sense of mutual 
embarrassment was daily growing. As though by com- 
mon consent all talk of plans was avoided. More and 
more did a tone of regret steal into their talk, regret for 
that which each had sacrificed for the other’s sake. Clearly 


236 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

and ever more clearly did Charlotte feel that even Basil’s 
kiss was poisoned to her by the recollection of the price 
which it had cost. 

It was in October that the strain at length gave way. 
There had been a fancy bazaar at the Deanery, to which 
the whole neighbourhood was invited, the rector’s daugh- 
ters included. Charlotte could not help noticing that when 
she and her sister drove up in the little pony-carriage with 
the mended harness, Basil, who was waiting in the entrance, 
received them with a clouded brow. 

‘ Couldn’t you have managed to put on something rather 
less crumpled ? ’ he whispered, in a vexed tone, as he as- 
sisted her to alight; ‘nobody wears those long hanging 
things now.’ 

‘ I have got nothing else,’ whispered back Charlotte, feel- 
ing ready to cry. Her dress had not looked so very much 
out of date at home, but having cast one glance at the crisp 
toilettes all round, she would have liked best to sink straight 
into the ground. There, just opposite to her, stood Lady 
Harriet Norby, now a grown-up young woman like herself, 
looking so comfortable and exactly in place in her costume 
of dark crimson cloth. How the men were pressing round 
her! And yet, despite her golden curls, she was not half 
so pretty as Charlotte. It was only that she had the right 
surroundings, while Charlotte had the wrong ones ; it was 
only that she was somebody, while Charlotte was nobody. 

When the moment for parting came, Basil whispered to 
Charlotte : ‘ Will you come to the old place in the beech- 
grove at four to-morrow ? ’ 

It was not quite four o’clock next day when she reached 
the beech-grove. In order to pass the time she began to 
pick up the black feathers that lay sprinkled over the 
ground, but her fingers were so cold with the thought of 
what was coming that she could scarcely hold them. Over- 
head the rooks were wheeling about insanely against the 
sky — a heaven full of black shooting stars. 

Punctually at four o’clock Basil appeared. He was just 
a trifle pale, but perfectly composed. His kiss was a dis- 
tinct shade warmer than it had lately been ; and then they 
sat down on the bank, and he immediately went to the 


PLAYMATES. 


237 


point. He spoke kindly and sensibly. They had both 
made a great mistake, but which luckily was not yet irre- 
trievable. They were fond of each other, of course, very 
fond of each other, but it was ridiculous to suppose that — 
considering what their aspirations had always been — either 
of them could find lasting happiness in the sort of existence 
they would have to lead when married. . . . ‘ I know 

that I could not,’ added Basil, with characteristic frank- 
ness. 

There were lots of masks behind which he might have 
attempted to conceal the real state of the case. He might 
have talked of self-sacrifice and have pointed out the un- 
pardonable selfishness of chaining so bright a creature to 
so precarious a lot, etc., but whatever faults Basil might 
have, hypocrisy was not one of them. 

‘ Of course,’ he concluded, ' the decision rests with you. 
If you prefer to face all the risks of the uncertain future, I 
shall naturally redeem my word.’ 

Charlotte said nothing ; by this time she was crying in a 
hopeless, helpless sort of fashion, which was a much more 
distinct answer than words could have been. 

‘ Of course it is very hard upon us both,’ reasoned Basil, 
^ but in time, no doubt, we will live it down. To marry 
well is simply my duty to my career ; I have no choice ; 
and as for you. Chatty, to marry well is your one chance 
in life.’ 

‘ I shall never care for any — any one but you,’ gasped 
Chatty. 

‘ I know it,’ responded Basil soothingly, ‘ but you will 
marry the first really rich suitor who aspires to your hand.’ 

Again Charlotte allowed her tears to answer for her. 

‘ Come,’ said Basil, with a rather forced attempt at cheer- 
fulness, for, to do him justice, the sight of Charlotte’s tears 
distressed him considerably ; ‘ we must keep our courage 
up to the mark. Chatty. Why, it was on this very spot 
that we agreed, years ago, that we were too poor to marry 
each other. I remember the day quite distinctly. We 
were much more sensible then than we have proved our- 
selves this summer.’ 

And after that it seemed that the moment had come for 


238 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

saying good-bye. There was no use, as Basil very ration- 
ally observed, in prolonging the pain of parting. So, while 
the dead leaves rustled at their feet and the rooks still 
wheeled wildly overhead, he took her in his arms for the 
last time and kissed her trembling lips. 

‘ God bless you. Chatty,’ he said at the last, almost a 
little huskily. ‘ I hope you will be happy.’ 

The huskiness was perfectly genuine, for he was really 
suffering acutely ; they were both suffering acutely. And 
yet neither of these young people would have had it other- 
wise, and each felt, as they turned their faces homewards, 
that, though it had been a wrench, yet it had also been the 
lifting of a weight. 

Neither the doctor nor the rector was able to see the 
force of the reasons which made the union of Basil and 
Charlotte impossible. In fact, both the foolish old papas 
were bitterly disappointed ; but, after all, this is a free coun- 
try, and though lovers can occasionally be kept apart, they 
cannot be forced into each other’s arms unless they wish. 

Charlotte did not again see Basil after the day they 
parted in the beech-grove. After the trick his heart had 
played him on that sunshiny summer afternoon, he felt that 
he had serious reasons for mistrusting himself. He had 
looked out his train and packed his portmanteau before he 
even turned his steps towards the place of rendezvous. 

Within the next few years both Basil and Charlotte made 
brilliant marriages. Basil, very shortly after his departure 
from home, astonished the world by becoming engaged to 
a certain Lady Emmelina Valbert, an heiress with miles of 
property in Scotland and a slight cast in her left eye. By 
the time the marriage took place he was already appointed 
attache to the British embassy at Athens (the Minister there 
being a second cousin of his wife’s), and had thus definitely 
entered on his diplomatic career. 

In the course of the same year Charlotte received a quite 
unexpected invitation to spend a week in London with a 
distant relation of her mother’s. It was during that visit 
that she met Gilbert Nevyll. 

By no possible means could her dreams of greatness 
have been more brilliantly fulfilled — nay, they were more 


THE LION HUNTER. 


239 


than fulfilled, they were surpassed — and yet Charlotte’s life 
was a failure. Half-hearted in everything that she ever 
attempted to do, she had been half-hearted as well in the 
one great step of her life. In every way her nature was 
unfortunately mixed. She had been mean enough to de- 
grade herself, yet she was right-minded enough to be 
ashamed of that self-elected degradation. Having com- 
mitted the greatest treachery which a woman can commit, 
the want of a certain ^ grit ’ (to have recourse to a singu- 
larly expressive slang phrase) about the texture of her mind 
had debarred her from enjoying its fruits. Like Judas she 
had sold her master, and then in disgust at the price of her 
crime she had gone and flung down the silver pieces in the 
temple. 

During all these years she had known that she still loved 
Basil, partly because of the aversion she felt for her hus- 
band; but her love, like everything else about her, had 
sunk to a condition of lethargy. It was the sharp pain of 
the meeting in Mrs. Byrd’s drawing-room which roused it 
once more to a new and active existence. The chronic 
heart-ache which she dragged about with her through life 
had become in one moment unbearably acute. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

THE LION HUNTER. 

* My dear, I can assure you that he was quite pensive 
all evening — positively pensive. Oh, you needn’t look 
incredulous ; I could see in one instant that you were not 
mere ordinary acquaintances.’ 

The speaker was little Mrs. Byrd, and only two days had 
elapsed since Charlotte’s call at Collingwood. Mrs. Byrd 
had her own reasons for returning that call with such ab- 
normal promptitude. 

It must be explained that this lady was generally known 
in the neighbourhood as the ‘ lion hunter,’ not because of 
16 


240 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

anything ferocious or bloodthirsty about her disposition, 
quite the reverse ; but because her chief occupation in life 
consisted in hunting down everything in the shape of a 
celebrity which ever strayed within the circle of her ken, 
and then, by all the arts at her command, luring her victims 
on longer or shorter visits to Collingwood. Not that Mrs. 
Byrd particularly cared for celebrities in themselves ; but 
she had discovered that other people did, and used them 
as a means towards an end. Her one ambition in life was 
to have her house spoken of as ‘ a nice house to stay at.’ 
But in order to get people to stay at your house gladly and 
of their own free will, some sort of an attraction must 
necessarily be offered. There are some houses which are 
visited because of their cuisine or their shooting ; others, 
again, whose invitations are responded to with alacrity on 
account of the pleasant prospect of taking in one of your 
host’s pretty daughters to dinner every evening, or possibly 
the black or the blue eyes of the hostess herself may be the 
magnet which draws. At Collingwood, however, there was 
nothing of all that. The Byrds were not well enough off 
either to keep a French cook or to indulge in anything 
higher than champagne at thirty shillings a dozen. Mrs. 
Byrd had no pretty daughters, while she herself had straw- 
coloured hair, bottle-green eyes, and a muddy skin, which one 
of her best friends had once characterised as ‘ the complexion 
of a duck’s foot ; ’ and yet she was determined that people 
should visit her house. How was it to be done ? After 
various unsuccessful attempts she had at length hit upon 
the idea of collecting " lions ’ under her hospitable roof, and 
once secured, turning them into decoys, wherewith to at- 
tract the visiting world of the neighbourhood. If the scale 
on which your stables are kept will not allow you to give 
your visitors a choice of mounts, it will at any rate be bet- 
ter than nothing to promise them the company of an Indian 
prince, even if only of a dispossessed one ; and there are 
cases in which Italian tenors or banished Bourbon agitators 
may form a very acceptable substitute, for even the most 
exquisite e7itrees. 

Of course, taking the above enumeration of Mrs. Byrd’s 
charms into consideration, it is only natural that the pursuit 


THE LION HUNTER. 


241 


of the coveted lions was a somewhat desperate task. But 
determination and a fixed purpose can conquer greater ob- 
stacles than even green eyes and a muddy complexion. In 
default of everything else the dauntless little woman assidu- 
ously cultivated the art of flattery — not a noble art, per- 
haps, but a marvellously remunerative one. Such perfec- 
tion had she reached in this line, that even the crustiest and 
most suspicious old German philosopher would leave Col- 
lingwood under the impression, not only that she had read 
all his works, but also that German philosophy was the one 
thing in life upon which she doted. In the case of poets 
and composers her task was easier, for what composer 
would not be pleased by being earnestly consulted as to 
the exact rendering of his newest composition, and what 
poet could resist the delicate flattery that is implied in the 
sight of his own volumes of verse casually dispersed among 
Shakespeare’s and Byron’s upon the drawing-room table ? 

When celebrities were scarce she had to content herself 
with personages, and it was in this way that Mr. Rocking- 
ham had fallen into her hands. Mr. Rockingham, as Her 
Majesty’s late Minister at M , was undoubtedly a per- 

sonage. What raised him in value, too, was that there 
happened to have lately been a somewhat lively exchange 

of telegrams between London and M , and it suited 

Mrs. Byrd admirably to be able to mention in her notes of 
invitation that the newly returned Minister was enjoying 
her hospitality, ‘the same Mr. Rockingham, you know, 
who has been so much spoken of in the papers in connec- 
tion with the royal festivities at M .’ 

Mrs. Byrd’s eagle eye had immediately detected that 
there was or had once been ‘something’ between Lady 
Nevyll and this newly captured lion, and instantly she had 
perceived the advantage to be gained from the circum- 
stance, for in this one field of action the little woman was 
quite a genius, while in every other she was almost a goose. 
The ex- Minister had been rather difficult to manage. He 
was going away next day, and was pressed to return for a 
Christmas gathering that was planned. He had hitherto 
been evasive; evidently the attractions of Collingwood 
were not quite up to the occasion. How lucky it would 


242 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

be if in the neighbourhood of this old ' playmate ’ she had 
discovered an inducement which could lure him back under 
her roof. 

‘ We were playmates, you know,’ said Charlotte, in some 
agitation, repeating the same words that Basil had used the 
day before yesterday. 

‘ And yet,’ remarked Mrs. Byrd, with an attempt at a 
roguish twinkle, ‘ I might almost venture to stake my best 
bonnet that some of the play was earnest too — on his side, 
at any rate. Well, I mustn’t betray confidences, but I can 
tell you that I had my hands full with the answering of 
questions the other evening.’ 

‘ He must have found me terribly changed,’ said Char- 
lotte dejectedly. 

‘ He didn’t say so, if he did. And as for that, my dear, 
you have only yourself to thank for it if people are con- 
tinually taking you for older than you are. You might 
take ten years off your age by paying a little more attention 
to your dress. By-the-bye,’ she added abruptly, ' you are 
not going to start for Florence till after Christmas, are 
you?’ 

* I was thinking of going in November.’ 

* You had far better put it off. I quite count upon you 
for my Christmas gathering. In fact, I don’t know how I 
shall entertain Mr. Rockingham without your help. I 
want you to talk reminiscences with your old playmate.’ 

‘Is he to be with you at Christmas ? ’ asked Charlotte, 
with a catch in her breath. 

‘Yes; he left us yesterday, and between ourselves, my 
dear, I don’t think I should have succeeded in wringing 
from him the promise to return if it had not been for the 
prospect of these reminiscences; so positively you must 
not play me false. We all know that there is nothing so 
delightful as talking over old times ; and, after all, it is a 
quite harmless amusement, especially as he has got no wife 
to take foolish, jealous ideas into her head. I suppose you 
know that he has been a free man these ten years past ? ’ 

Yes, Charlotte knew that he was a free man ; but what 
difference could that make, she asked herself, after Mrs. 
Byrd had left her, since she was not a free woman ? ' 


THE LION HUNTER. 


243 


Had Basil really been so deeply moved by the meeting ? 
Vain question! What good could come of it? And yet, 
how would it be if she put off her journey to Florence for 
a little longer, just till after Christmas? 

It was in less than two months from that date that Char- 
lotte knew that she was a widow. 

There had been a period of bewildered uncertainty to be 
lived through. Those same reports that were being scanned 
by Ulrica with beating heart and blanched lips in the depth 
of the pine-wood valley, were daily studied at Morton Hall 
with an attention no less exhaustive, and with a mixture of 
emotions which it would be hard to analyse. In these first 
days horror dominated every other sensation, pure horror, 
physical and mental. It was only when this cloud of hor- 
ror began to disperse that a thousand new possibilities un- 
rolled themselves before Charlotte’s eyes. By degrees only 
it began to be clear to her how much the expectant thrill 
with which she daily took the paper in hand had in com- 
mon with that mixture of hope and fear which makes the 
escaped slave, flying for his freedom, glance back over his 
shoulder to see whether he is in safety yet. Or must he go 
back to his chains ? 

Through it all, no sensation which could be identified 
as pity ever came near her soul. She had hated her hus- 
band with too fanatical a hatred to be capable of any soft- 
ening even towards his memory. When she thought of 
that last meeting at Valerie Bad, it was not with any feel- 
ing of regret for the bitterness in which they had parted ; 
no, it was rather to rejoice that he had not died without 
hearing the truth from her lips. To feel that she held his 
fate in her hand, and coldly to push him from her, what a 
moment of wild triumph it had been. ' I am unhappy, 
wretched, disappointed,’ she had called out to him in 
spirit ; ^ thou art the embodiment of all my failures, thou 
for the sake of whose riches I have perjured myself, the 
mother of whose children it has not been granted me to 
be ; be thou also unhappy, wretched, disappointed ! I will 
move no finger to save thee ! ’ 

It had been under the pressure of this desire to avenge 
her lost happiness that she had burst the bonds of reticence 


244 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

and unveiled her own baseness before her husband’s eyes. 
He must know all — all, for only in this way could she utterly 
crush his hope in the future. 

Even after all uncertainty had ceased and Charlotte 
knew herself to be free, she did not immediately succeed 
in taking a steady look at the future. It had aU been too 
sudden, and fitted in too strangely to the thoughts that had 
been in her mind. A hundred times a day she changed 
her mind as to whether she should go to Florence or not, 
but the New Year was well entered upon, and still she 
lingered at Morton Hall, waiting for — she knew not what ! 
It required some impulse coming from outside herself to 
order her ideas for her and to help her to adopt a distinct 
attitude towards her new position. 

This impulse had hitherto been wanting, but it was 
close at hand. 

One snowy forenoon, Charlotte, sitting alone in her 
morning-room, was roused by the clang of the door-bell 
pealing through the silent house. She had not heard the 
wheels of the approaching carriage upon the soft, fresh 
carpet of snow, which smothered every sound. ‘ More 
cards,’ she thought indifferently. In the next minute a 
footman entered with a card upon a salver. She glanced 
at the name, then suddenly snatched up the cardboard. 

‘ Is he gone ? ’ 

'No, my lady. The gentleman is waiting downstairs. 
He wished to know whether you would see him.’ 

‘ Show him up,’ said Charlotte, rising from her chair and 
beginning with unsteady fingers to shake out the folds of 
her black dress and to smooth the hair under her cap. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

REMINISCENCES. 

She was still standing thus when the ex-Minister was 
ushered in. 

It was a long, narrow room, and Charlotte stood at the 


REMINISCENCES. 


245 

end furthest from the door, so that she and Basil had time 
to have a critical look at one another before they met. 

There could be no greater contrast than that between 
these two people who had once been lovers : he suave, 
self-assured, well-groomed, well-fed, with his dark, energet- 
ically poised head and the suspicion of a satisfied smile 
which played about his thin but finely moulded lips ; she 
vainly struggling for composure, with rapidly changing 
colour and wide, frightened eyes, which told their tale at 
the first glance. 

The experiment, which with the woman had been so 
conspicuous a failure, had with the man proved itself a no 
less brilliant success. The ‘ push ’ he had boasted of had 
been crowned, as ‘ push ’ always deserves to be crowned in 
this world of hard realities. It seemed as though the 
sacrifice he had made — and it had been a real sacrifice at 
the moment — had propitiated the Fates in his favour. 
Everything, positively everything, had happened exactly as 
he would have elected it to happen had he had the pulling 
of the strings of his own destiny. People who were con- 
venient to him had come into power, people who were in- 
convenient to him had fallen into disgrace ; other people 
had died quite unexpectedly, or become invalided in the 
most obliging manner, apparently for the sole purpose of 
allowing the rising young diplomat to step into their places. 
It was in this way that he had succeeded in becoming the 
youngest Minister in Her Majesty’s service. And what 
was by no means to be accounted among the smallest 
pieces of luck which had befallen him was that the heiress 
with the miles of property in Scotland and the slight cast 
in her eye had lived just long enough to present him with 
two promising young Rockinghams (at present treading in 
their father’s footsteps at Harrow), and had then consider- 
ately betaken herself to a better world, leaving the disposal 
of her fortune unreservedly in her husband’s hands. 

Except that his voice was a little deeper and his black 
hair a little thinner, he was exactly the Basil of old days. 
In his youth he had never been particularly youthful, and 
now in his middle-age he reaped the advantage of that 
circumstance, for even people who had not seen him for 


246 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

twenty years could not perceive much difference in his ap- 
pearance. It was only that he had become a slightly en- 
larged and, so to say, more emphatic copy of himself. 

* I did not know that you were here,’ were the first words 
which Charlotte was aware of uttering, after Mr. Rocking- 
ham had established himself in the chair to which she 
tremblingly motioned him. ‘ That is to say, I thought you 
were to be at Collingwood for Christmas, and would be 
gone again by this time.’ 

She was painfully ill at ease — up to what point was the 
past to be ignored ? Was it to be ‘ Basil ’ and ‘ Charlotte ’ 
between them, or ‘ Mr. Rockingham ’ and ‘ Lady Nevyll ’ ? 

The decision followed quickly. ‘You have been cor- 
rectly informed. Lady Nevyll, but I was kept in town by 
business at Christmas-time. I am making up for it now, 
you see. There is no such thing as being let off a promise 
made to my present amiable hostess. It is in her name 
that I am here to-day.’ 

‘ Oh,’ interrupted Charlotte, somewhat crestfallen, ‘ it is 
Mrs. Byrd who has sent you ? ’ 

‘ Yes, it is Mrs. Byrd who has sent me.’ 

In this respect also he had remained his old self. This 
was quite the bluntness of the boy Basil, who never took to 
himself the credit of any sentiment which he did not feel. 

‘She was anxious to convey to you her condolences, 
and, having learnt from me how old is the acquaintance I 
can claim, we agreed that I might take the risk of having 
the door shut in my face,’ and he smiled the smile of a 
man in whose face no door had ever yet been shut. ‘ It 
has been a most shocking occurrence,’ he added immedi- 
ately, ‘ and you must have suffered terribly.’ 

This time Charlotte could find nothing to say. In her 
nature also there was an obstinate fibre of honesty, and to 
give the assent expected of her surpassed her powers of 
dissimulation. Instead of speaking, she swiftly raised her 
eyes to his face, not with any purpose, but on some irre- 
sistible impulse. 

There was a moment’s silence in the room. Mr. Rock- 
ingham had learnt a good deal in. that one instant. 
Amongst other things he had learnt that, though Charlotte 


REMINISCENCES. 


247 

was terribly passee^ her eyes were quite as blue and almost 
as beautiful as of yore. 

‘ It is a strange case, altogether,’ he observed, with ready 
presence of mind, ‘ two lives thus unexpectedly extinguished. 
I hear there is even some difficulty in tracing the next 
possessor. Or has that point already been solved ? ’ 

‘ I don’t think so ; the matter is still being investigated.’ 

The future not seeming readily to yield a subject of 
conversation, Mr. Rockingham turned with perfect self- 
possession to the past. He began by kind inquiries after 
her sisters, and in two minutes more, somewhat to his own 
astonishment, they were embarked on a full flood of 
reminiscences. 

‘ And that dear old brick house,’ asked Charlotte pres- 
ently, ‘ what has become of it ? ’ She was reviving now in 
the congenial atmosphere of these memories. 

‘ I sold the house directly after my poor father’s death. I 
believe there is a shoe manufactory established there now.’ 

‘ A shoe manufactory ! ’ Charlotte was aghast. ‘ And 
the garden ? All those beautiful peach trees “? ’ 

The garden, it seemed, had been the subject of a sepa- 
rate transaction, having passed into the possession of an 
enterprising London market-gardener. 

Again Charlotte stifled a sigh. ‘ I have never tasted 
any peaches Hke those that grew along that south wall,’ she 
mused aloud. 

Mr. Rockingham smiled indulgently. 

‘Most complimentary to my father’s gardening; but 
isn’t that stretching the point just a little ? They couldn’t, 
after all, hold the palm to hot-house peaches, and you 
seem to have miles of glass here at Morton.’ 

‘Oh yes, but hot-houses are not the same as — as gar- 
dens. Don’t you remember, Bas — Mr. Rockingham, how 
I used to hold my pinafore to catch the plums while you 
gathered them ? And the day that I fell into the water-butt 
and you pulled me out ? ’ 

Her courage had returned to her, and with it her colour. 
At any price she must know what part those old days 
played in his thoughts. 

‘Really, Lady Nevyll,’ said Mr. Rockingham una- 


248 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

bashed, ‘your memory beats mine entirely. I distinctly 
recollect pulling a limp little parcel out of the water-butt, 
but are you certain it was not your sister Maria ? She was 
always stumbling into something.’ 

At that ‘ Lady Nevyll’ Charlotte shrank back, almost as 
though she had received a slap in the face. Turning from 
this dangerous ground, she made a desperate plunge into 
commonplaces. 

For five minutes all went well, but presently a chance 
and trivial circumstance gave rise to a remark which be- 
trayed where her thoughts had been all this time. It had 
been during one of the pauses of the conversation that a 
soft sound had arisen at the window, and several small 
feathered heads, their outlines blurred by the falling snow, 
were seen bobbing up and down behind the pane. 

‘ Hungry weather for the birds,’ Mr. Rockingham ob- 
served, glad of having so obvious a remark to make. ‘ Why, 
what’s come to them ? Ah, it’s the rook that has fright- 
ened them off. Have you got a rookery here ? ’ 

‘Yes, but I almost wish there were no rooks about the 
place,’ said Charlotte, with a quiver in her voice. 

‘ Does the cawing disturb you ? I believe that many 
people find it trying to the nerves.’ 

‘ I do,’ she muttered between her teeth. ‘ Surely you 
remember the rooks in the beech-grove 1 ’ and she turned 
to him with a sort of desperate appeal ; ‘ and the way they 
would shoot backwards and forwards across the sky on 
autumn evenings ? ’ 

‘ And the excellent rook-pies they would make into in 
spring — oh , yes, I remember it all perfectly. What’s that 
striking ? Positively one o’clock ? It’s fortunate that they 
are late lunchers at Collingwood.’ 

‘ I am an early luncher,’ said Charlotte, with some hesi- 
tation. ‘ So if you do not mind a dull meal — ’ 

‘Unluckily, I am pledged to be back,’ said Mr. Rock- 
ingham, rising somewhat hastily, for he had begun to feel 
that, despite all his coolness and dexterity, the ice over 
which he was skating was perilously thin. At the last mo- 
ment only, as he met the wistful look in her upturned blue 
eyes, something like relenting came over him. 


AFTER-SUMMER. 


249 


‘ I am going on to Bromly from Collingwood/ he ob- 
served, just before turning away, ‘so that we shall be 
neighbours yet for a few weeks to come. So not good- 
bye, but au revoirl ’ And taking up her hand, he carried 
it respectfully to his lips. It was a trick he had learnt at 
foreign courts, and which he occasionally made use of 
when he wished to be effective, but Charlotte did not 
know this ; she took the incident for very much more than 
it was worth, and remained at the window, all in a flutter, 
long after the carriage had driven away. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

AFTER-SUMMER. 

That evening, having dismissed her maid. Lady Nevyll 
sat for long before her toilet-table, lost in the contemplation 
of her image in the glass. The warm flush that had sprung 
to her face at the moment that Basil’s lips touched her 
hand had not left it all day. 

After all, why should it be too late ? 

This was the thought stirring in her mind as she bent 
forward and scanned her own features searchingly. 1 o 
go to the root of the matter, what had she to build upon ? 
Which of her charms had been saved out of the wreck ? 
She began to go through a minute enumeration. Chief 
among all were her eyes; these were undoubtedly her 
trump card. Her figure was still youthful, and she had al- 
ways had faultless teeth, though few people were aware of 
this, seeing that during these last eighteen years she had 
almost forgotten how to smile. They were still dazzling 
and intact, and, as she smiled at herself now experiment- 
ally in the glass, there was no doubt that the pearly flash 
lighted up her faded face wonderfully. Her hands, too, 
were beautiful, with blue veins showing under the trans- 
parent skin and palms that were soft and rosy as those of 
a child. Lastly there was her hair. It had preserved its 


250 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

colour tolerably, thought Charlotte, as she shook out the 
long, silky locks, which were of so pale golden a tint that 
the slight sprinkling of silver served only to give them a 
delicately poudre appearance. She began to wonder 
whether it would not suit her better if it were dressed 
high ? 

There had been as many fluctuations of dejection as of 
elation during Basil’s short visit, but that last moment had 
made up for everything. It was at that moment that an 
amazing possibility had flashed into her mind ; why should 
it be too late to redeem the past ? 

So utterly unused had Charlotte grown to thinking of 
herself as anything but middle-aged, and definitely laid on 
the shelf, that at first she felt almost a little giddy with the 
audacity of her new idea ; but hope comes naturally to the 
heart of woman, and before she had laid her head on the 
pillow that night she had resolved that a new life should 
be entered upon without delay. 

Next day Lady Nevyll’s London dressmaker was aston- 
ished by receiving an order for a new mourning-gown, 
which was to be completed with the least possible delay, 
her ladyship having come to the conclusion that neither of 
the two black costumes which had been delivered last were 
satisfactory as to style and fit. Madame Browne, the 
dressmaker, was dumbfounded. Hitherto Lady Nevyll 
had been quite the most convenient of her customers ; not 
once in these ten years had she so much as sent back a 
bodice to be altered. Whence, then, this new fastidious- 
ness? And in so young a widow? It was more than 
Madame Browne could grasp. 

Madame Browne was not the only person who was 
astonished by a letter from Morton Hall that day. Lady 
Nevyll’s staymaker, as well as her shoemaker, was likewise 
honoured by unexpected communications, while a certain 
Mademoiselle Rougier was urgently consulted by the same 
post as to whether there were no possibility of constructing 
a widow’s cap which, while coming up to the requirements 
of custom, would yet not act as a complete extinguisher of 
the mourning widow’s charms. 

The difficulties in her way were verily great, but for the 


AFTER-SUMMER. 


251 


moment Charlotte was dauntless. In all but the most 
commonplace of female natures there lurk unexpected 
resources, and in this crisis of her life Charlotte developed 
an inventiveness of which she had never believed herself 
capable. Her apathy fell from her like a cloak, and a 
feverish activity took its place. In some subtle, indescrib- 
able way she contrived to make of her widow’s weeds a 
better frame to her fading charms than any of the costly 
robes which Madame Browne had thought good to send 
her in past days, and which she had put on almost without 
so much as a glance into the glass to see whether the 
colour suited her or not. 

Were Charlotte’s hopes absolutely vain? By no means. 
At first, indeed, a sort of patronising pity had had 
the upper hand in Basil’s mind. ‘ Poor thing ! ’ had been 
the thought with which he had turned his back on Morton 
that snowy day. And yet the meeting had not been with- 
out its effect on him as well. He had always preserved a 
good-natured interest in 'little Chatty,’ and he had been 
quite sincere in hoping that her life would be as happy and 
fortunate as his own was. The discovery that this was 
not the case, and that not all Sir Gilbert Nevyll’s riches 
had been able to cast his image into the shade, could 
nevertheless not fail to have a very soothing and gratifying 
effect upon such a person as Mr. Rockingham. If in one 
sense it lowered Charlotte in his estimation, it infinitely 
raised her in another. In any case it proved that she had 
good taste. Possibly, too, he was just a trifle awed by the 
depth of a passion of which he knew himself— for he knew 
himself very well — to be utterly incapable. 

During the whole of that afternoon these thoughts 
worked together in Basil’s mind, and that evening, just 
about the time that Charlotte was consulting her face in 
the glass, Mr. Rockingham was standing on the hearthrug 
of his bedroom, his back to the fire, his hands buried in 
the pockets of his smoking-jacket, and on his face the look 
of a man who is debating a serious question within him- 
self. 

‘ Upon my word, I am beginning to think that there is 
something in the idea,’ he presently remarked aloud, look- 


252 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

ing down confidentially at his embroidered slippers. ‘ I 
can’t well do without marrying again, and the chances are 
that Sir Gilbert has been generous about the provisions. 
It’s not as though I had my way to make now, and be- 
sides, marrying Lady Nevyll sounds rather different from 
marrying Miss Dickson. Poor little Chatty! She must 
be terribly fond of me.’ And he looked down again at his 
slippers with a smile that was almost a little pensive. 

‘ If only she hadn’t lost her looks so terribly. In any 
case, I must have another look at her before I leave the 
neighbourhood. Black doesn’t suit her, that is quite 
clear.’ 

The result of these cogitations on the hearthrug was 
that Mr. Rockingham allowed himself to be pressed by 
Mrs. Byrd into prolonging his stay at Collingwood for 
another week. During that w^eek he saw Charlotte again. 
It was on leaving church on Sunday that he had his op- 
portunity. Mr. Rockingham always was very punctilious 
in the observance of Sunday, not only because it looked 
well, but also because he had a slight leaning towards 
religion. At any rate, he believed in a Supreme Being, 
though possibly if his heart had been searched, it would 
have been found that he defined this Supreme Being to 
himself as ‘The Person who made me.’ He was quite 
certain that nothing short of a God could be the author of 
his, Basil Rockingham’s, existence, consequently he felt the 
deepest respect for his Creator. 

The first sensation which Mr. Rockingham experienced 
on meeting Lady Nevyll on the steps of the church was 
one of pleasurable surprise. He had always been fastid- 
ious about woman’s dress, and he wondered now what 
could have given him the idea that black did not suit 
Charlotte. Those Ophelia-like orbs, with their chronic 
tinge of melancholy, looked particularly in place behind a 
crape veil — she might have been a captive gazing at him 
from between her prison-bars with eyes that pleaded for 
deliverance. He scanned her critically, point by point, 
even while dividing indifferent remarks between her and 
Mrs. Byrd, measuring her by the ‘ embassadress ’ standard 
which he had before his mind’s eye, and, with an ever- 


AFTER-SUMMER. 


253 


growing sense of surprise and satisfaction, he admitted to 
himself that in no vital point did she fall short of the mark. 
What was wanting in aplomb and decision of bearing could 
easily be supplied by practice. 

‘ She has certainly picked up style,' reflected Basil, as, 
having helped Charlotte into her carriage, he watched her 
sink back in the comer, half buried in a mass of costly 
black fur with which only a figure so slender as hers could 
have dared to load itself. ‘ It is odd that I did not notice 
it the other day.’ 

So deeply impressed was he with his new discovery that 
he actually went to call at Morton two days later, unde- 
terred by the thought of what people might say. This 
time, too, he had no engagement which necessitated his 
flight before luncheon, neither was the awkwardness of the 
tete-a-tete half so palpable as the other day. Charlotte was 
altogether another person. 

From the moment that the spark of hope had begun to 
revive in her heart she had lost that dejected droop of 
head and shoulders, that indecision of glance which had 
for years past made her so dispiriting a figure to gaze 
upon. The impression produced by the meeting on the 
church steps had not escaped her attention, and a marked 
increase of self-confidence had been the result. 

With every meeting — and in the weeks that followed 
Basil and Charlotte met often — this change about her be- 
came more apparent. In proportion as the chance of re- 
gaining her old lover grew, in exact proportion did her 
whole being revive under the delicious influence of this 
late-born hope. 

It was the strangest, most blissful time of her life, a sort 
of after-summer blooming out suddenly in the midst of late 
autumn. 

And, in truth, Charlotte was not feeding her hope on 
shadows. Basil’s passion for her had indeed been dead 
for years, but it still remained true that it had been the 
only passion of his life. A little of the poetry of that early 
romance could not fail still to linger about her in his eyes. 
Besides, he had found out that Sir Gilbert’s widow was pro- 
vided for on an absolutely princely scale and quite un- 


254 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

hampered by conditions. There were a great many rea- 
sons in favour of the plan, and though he was not yet 
prepared to commit himself to the last irrevocable step — 
even supposing that the rules of decorum had made this 
possible at this date — yet he deliberately extended his stay 
at Bromley for a full month beyond the date originally 
fixed. In autumn he intended to revisit the neighbourhood 
— for it was almost certain that autumn would find him 
still in England. Meanwhile he must be showing himself 
in London, for Parliament was sitting and most of his in- 
fluential friends were gathered on the spot. 

It was from Bromley that Mr. Rockingham drove over 
to say good-bye to Lady Nevyll. He found her in one 
of the hot-houses, seated on a bench with a novel in her 
hand. She had cast aside the heavy fur cloak and hood 
in which she had walked down from the house, retaining 
only a black lace scarf which she had draped mantilla- wise 
over her head. It was the first time that Basil had seen 
her without her widow’s cap, and he could not fail to no- 
tice the exquisite effect produced by the tracery of the 
black lace upon the cloudy gold of her hair. 

‘ What do you say to my idea ? ’ asked Charlotte, as Mr. 
Rockingham approached. ‘ Is not this a splendid way of 
cheating this detestable climate ? To be sure, potted pome- 
granates and laurels are a rather poor substitute for Florence, 
but at any rate they are better than naked beeches and 
elms.’ 

* If Florence agrees with you as well as its substitute 
does,* answered Mr. Rockingham, staring hard at her face, 
‘ I should say that certainly you ought always to live 
among the pomegranates and the laurels.’ 

Charlotte looked away, colouring with pleasure. Oh, 
how glad she was at that moment that she had draped the 
mantilla so carefully! It was of the utmost importance 
that Basil should carry away with him a favourable image 
of her, a last impression which would dwell with him till 
autumn. 

‘ Will you sit down f Or shall we take a turn through 
the other houses? One can take quite a long walk here 
without ever having to leave one’s shelter.’ 


AFTER-SUMMER. 


255 


She rose and led the way, Mr. Rockingham following in 
her footsteps on the narrow tiled path. 

‘ Oh, do you know the latest news ? ’ said Charlotte pres- 
ently, over her shoulder, just as they entered the palm- 
house. ‘ The heiress is found — Mr. D unnet has unearthed 
her at last.’ 

‘It is a she^ then?’ observed Mr. Rockingham indig- 
nantly, for he was gazing approvingly at the back of Char- 
lotte’s coiffure. 

‘Yes. It is one of Sir Gilbert’s Austrian relatives, it 
seems. Some third or fourth cousin — I haven’t really in- 
quired into the matter— a young woman who is supposed 
to be living in some village in the mountains, unless, indeed, 
she has died of starvation by this time, for she seems to 
have been in wretched circumstances.’ 

‘ Good gracious, she will be a sort of savage, I suppose. 
It will be most unpleasant for you, for, after all, it will be 
expected that you should treat her as a relation. Can she 
read and write ? ’ 

‘ Scarcely in English, I should fancy, but she will have 
money enough to keep as many masters as she likes,’ and 
Charlotte heaved the ghost of a sigh. After all, now that 
it was coming to the point, there would be some bitterness 
in having to yield up the place which she had occupied for 
so long. ‘ It will soon be time for me to be packing up 
my goods and chattels,’ she added, still in that tone of 
slight aggrievement. 

‘ Shall I, then, not find you here in autumn ? I had quite 
counted upon doing so.’ 

Charlotte smiled to herself at the tinge of anxiety in his 
voice. 

‘ Oh yes, you will find me — at least you will not have far 
to look. I have only got to move over to the dower- 
house, the old Hall as they call it — not more than a mile 
from here. It has been latterly given up to the manager, 
but they are getting it put into order now. It seems that 
the Nevylls are always very particular about their widows 
being well cared for after their deaths, whatever may have 
been the case during their lifetime.’ Her voice for one 
moment had grown hard and bitter. She plucked off a 

17 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


256 

leaf in passing, and crumpled it up angrily between her 
fingers. 

‘ That will suit admirably,’ Mr. Rockingham was saying. 

' For I am not only pledged to Mrs. Byrd, but have like- 
wise consented to make another stay at Bromley. I be- 
lieve they want me to do something for that young fellow 
of theirs. Perhaps I shall be able to assist you in civilis- 
ing the Austrian savage.’ 

‘ And about what time may I count upon your assist- 
ance?’ asked Charlotte over her shoulder, her good- 
humom: quite restored. 

^ Scarcely before September. I am pledged to London 
for the next few months, and in August I shall have to 
take the youngsters somewhere for the holidays. So these 
are the peaches of which you spoke so slightingly the other 
day, and yet they look as though they deserved more at- 
tention.’ 

From between the thick green leaves which covered the 
walls of this house the smelling fruit peeped in innumera- 
ble shades of green, pink, and purple. Just such peaches 
had grown along the wall of Doctor Rockingham’s sunny 
garden beside the homely brick house, but they had put 
out their fruit in August and not in February, therein lay 
the difference ; and just in this way had Basil and Char- 
lotte wandered along alone between the fruit trees on a 
certain brilliant summer day, only that then they had had 
a blue sky overhead instead of a roof of glass, and they 
had been young instead of on the verge of middle-age, and 
therein also lay a very great difference. 

Charlotte made no answer to Basil’s remark about the 
peaches, and Mr. Rockingham, too, became suddenly silent. 
They were both thinking of the same thing. The past had 
risen up and was usurping the place of the present. 

The daylight had been declining gradually during the 
last ten minutes, and, as Charlotte opened the door at the 
end of the peach-house, a veil of mystery seemed already 
to hang over the flowers in the house beyond. From out 
of the mass of dark foliage the white camelias shone like 
ghostly stars, while only the most brilliant of the clusters 
of red fuchsia glowed faintly through the falling dusk. 


AFTER-SUMMER. 257 

‘ This is the end of our walk,’ said Charlotte, standing 
still. ‘ We must go back the way we came.’ 

‘ But not without taking with us a souvenir of the expe- 
dition,’ answered Mr. Rockingham readily, as he eyed the 
camelia bushes with an experienced glance. ‘ They have 
a big dinner at Bromley to-night, and this choice of but- 
tonholes is more than tantalising. Is your gardener inex- 
orable, or may I help myself ? ’ 

‘ Wait, let me gather it for you,’ said Charlotte eagerly, 
while on tiptoe, with head thrown back and arms out- 
stretched, she reached down the branch on which she had 
espied one specially fine blossom. Seen thus against the 
fading light which softened the angles of her otherwise too 
sharply cut profile, it would have been quite possible to 
mistake her thinness for girlish slightness, her languid 
grace for youthfulness. It was not the charm of the fresh 
flower, of course, not the intoxicating scent which bursts 
from the newly opened blossom, but does there not cling 
a glamour of poetry about the dry flower as well, the 
flower that has been preserved as a memory of other days ? 
To Basil, at least, who in spirit had just been walking his 
father’s fruit-garden, some such mysterious glamour seemed 
to be floating in the heavily-scented air. When Charlotte 
approached him with the white camelia in her hand, he 
found it quite natural that she should volunteer to put it 
into his buttonhole herself, and while she was busy fasten- 
ing it he positively came nearer to feeling agitated than he 
had felt for these last nineteen years. 

Suddenly she looked up into his face. The camelia was 
just fastened. 

‘ Will you keep it till September ? ’ she asked, with a 
touch of audacity which in her was new and strange. 

‘ Yes,’ he replied ; and then, having debated within him- 
self for the space of two seconds, he bent and touched her 
forehead with his lips. 

‘ For the sake of old times,’ he had the presence of mind 
immediately to add. It could not be said exactly that he 
had acted on impulse, for he believed at that time that it 
would probably be expedient for him to marry this woman 
and yet his instinctive caution had urged him to put in 


258 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


that saving clause, just in case of any unforeseen contin- 
gency. 

Charlotte had scarcely heard the last words. Her brain 
was in a whirl, her heart in a tumult of bliss. Not till 
long after he had left her did she even partially recover 
her composure. 

‘Till September!’ Oh, when would the summer be 
lived through ? Surely now she held her happiness safely 
within her grasp — surely this time it could not escape her ? 
Till September! 

She was back in the house by this time, and the long 
row of hot-houses were shrouded in the dusk. And still it 
was not yet so dark but that the pomegranates might not 
have been seen slowly shaking their glowing heads and the 
frolicsome fuchsias putting out their delicate, white-tipped 
tongues as though in impish derision of the scene of which 
they had just been witness. 

Who knows whether they were not making fun of this 
faded woman who believed herself loved! 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

THE NEW HALL AND THE OLD. 

According to the wish expressed by Mr. Dunnet, Ulrica 
had telegraphed from Calais naming the hour of her arrival. 
It seemed to her a quite unnecessary precaution, but there 
could be no harm in humouring the old lawyer so far. She 
was going straight to Morton without stopping in London, 
for she knew that Lady Nevyll was passing the winter in 
the country, and it was only to see Lady Nevyll that she 
was visiting England. 

Ulrica had travelled night and day, for her impatience 
and curiosity had not permitted her to rest on the way. 
But now, as on the evening of the third day she neared her 
journey’s end, both impatience and curiosity were percepti- 
bly flagging, and all that she was conscious of, as she. leant 


THE NEW HALL AND THE OLD. 


259 


back in the corner of her carriage, was the earnest desire 
to lay her aching head on a pillow and stretch her cramped 
limbs for a long night’s rest. 

So overpowered was she with an irresistible drowsiness 
that she probably would have missed her station, had not 
the guard, on whose mercy she had thrown herself on leav- 
ing London, proved himself equal to the occasion. 

Ulrica started out of her corner, rubbing her eyes vigor- 
ously. They were just gliding from the dense darkness 
into a glare of gaslight. It must be a particularly well- 
lighted station, she thought, much more so than the aver- 
age small country station, of which she had had ample ex- 
perience in the course of the last two hours. This also 
was nothing more than a small country station, as she as- 
certained by peering through the panes clouded with damp, 
but it seemed to be a particularly lively one. The solitary 
little building was all ablaze, and upon the miniature plat- 
form quite a crowd of people were assembled, most of them 
with their hats in their hands, and all of them with their 
faces turned towards the slackening train. 

‘ Is anything the matter ? ’ asked Ulrica of the guard. 
* Has there been an accident or anything ? ’ 

‘ No, miss, it’s not an accident, it’s a reception. It’s the 
tenants waiting to cheer the new proprietor.’ 

It did not occur to Ulrica to ask whose tenants they 
were ; the question was profoundly indifferent to her as she 
took her shabby little bag down from the net and descended 
from her second-class carriage. 

The descending was easy enough, but further progress 
was by no means such a simple matter. The crowd on 
the platform were all peering in one direction, all gravitat- 
ing towards the first-class carriages. All at once there was 
a deafening cheer — a head with a bonnet had appeared at 
one of the windows, a very ancient head with a wonderfully 
hideous bonnet, not at all the object one would expect to 
unchain this burst of enthusiasm. Before it had quite 
swelled to its loudest note the cheer broke off abruptly at 
the same time that the wearer of the bonnet drew back 
hastily from the window. 

‘ That can’t be the right ’un,’ said one man to his neigh- 


26 o a queen of curds and cream. 

bour; ‘don’t ee see how Mr. Dunnet is hushin’ us up? 
Let ’s keep an eye upon him and we’ll know when to sing 
out.’ 

Ulrica had been near enough to hear the words. She 
turned towards where the men were looking, and caught 
sight of the same elderly Englishman who had visited her 
in the Marienhof in company with Herr Prell, the notary. » 
The clean-shaven face and the iron-grey laurel- wreath were 
unmistakable, only in the Marienhof the face had been per- 
fectly composed, while now it betrayed some signs of agita- 
tion, and the grey locks had been plastered into faultless 
symmetry, whereas at present the night breeze was ruffling 
them at its will, as Mr. Dunnet, bareheaded, raced up and 
down the platform, his strides growing ever longer and his 
expression more distressed, as the train, after its short halt, 
was preparing to start again. All at once the true meaning 
of the situation flashed upon Ulrica. With her bag in her 
hand she stepped up to Mr. Dunnet. 

‘ Is it for me you are looking ? ’ she asked, loud enough 
to be heard by the crowd behind. 

Mr. Dunnet started and stared. In the crowd there was 
a silence, a moment of hesitation, and then, at sight of the 
profound inclination which followed upon the lawyer’s 
start, the deafening cheer burst out again, ten times more 
deafening than the one elicited by the sight of the bonnet 
at the window. 

‘ I wish they wouldn’t shout so,’ said Ulrica wearily, ‘ my 
head is aching unbearably. I should like to get to bed as 
soon as possible. Is it far to walk ? ’ 

‘ Surely you are not thinking of walking ? ’ 

‘ Well, then, how am I to get there ? Is there a carriage 
to be had ? ’ 

‘ The carriage is here, of course. Countess. Allow me 
to conduct you to it.’ 

A lane was formed on the instant, and Ulrica, on Mr. 
Dunnet’s arm, passed out of the station-house to where an- 
other crowd was waiting round the Morton carriage. 

‘ Am I to get in here ? ’ she asked, staring in surprise at 
the big carriage with the tall brown horses and the liveried 
coachman. 


THE NEW HALL AND THE OLD. 


261 


Mr. Dunnet bowed in silence. More deafening cheers 
followed them as they drove off. 

‘ What do they make that noise for ? ’ asked Ulrica. 
‘ Surely it can’t all be on account of me ? Is that the cus- 
tom? ’ 

‘ The custom would be to do a great deal more, Coun- 
tess. If it were not for the very peculiar circumstances of 
the case, you would have had a reception more worthy of 
the occasion. I did think of allowing the bonfires, even 
though an illumination would scarcely have been decorous ; 
but in consideration of the recent and so tragical end of 
the late proprietor, I was not certain of your approval. I 
hope I have acted rightly ? ’ 

‘Thank Heaven!’ was Ulrica’s sole answer. ‘The illu- 
mination would have hurt my eyes, while at least that 
shouting only hurts my ears.’ 

Mr. Dunnet breathed a sigh of relief. 

‘ And yet it would have been a very magnificent sight,’ 
he added rather wistfully, for the honour of the family and 
anything that served to add to its outward splendour lay 
very near to his heart. ‘ To begin with, there would have 
been a flower arch at the station and wreaths round all the 
pillars, and probably an illuminated inscription instead of 
only the gas put on, which was all I felt justified in sanc- 
tioning. And then there would have been a mounted es- 
cort of the chief tenants riding on each side of the carriage 
at this moment, and the lodge, of course, would have been 
one mass of light, and another arch at the gate ; this is the 
gate we are passing through just now.’ 

‘ Are we there already ? Where is my bag ? ’ asked Ul- 
rica, sitting up. 

‘ There is no hurry,’ said Mr. Dunnet, with a slight smile ; 

‘ the avenue is two miles and a half long. Ah, if those 
bonfires had been burning, you would have had a chance 
of judging of the trees. And from this point, just from 
this bend we are passing now, you would have had the first 
view of the house, the outline picked out with tiny lamps, 
and when we get to the next turn the first rockets would 
have gone up.’ 

Mr. Dunnet peered eagerly out of the window, almost 


262 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

as though he were pointing out an actual sight, instead of 
only dwelling regretfully upon what might have been. He 
was prepared to expand very much more on the subject, 
but in face of Ulrica’s weary silence his eloquence died 
out. She looked listlessly through the window, following 
with her eyes the light of the carriage-lamps as it glided 
over the branches of the rhododendron and holly bushes 
which bordered the avenue, lighting up single leaves vividly 
for one moment, and leaving them again to be swallowed 
up in darkness. It seemed to her that the drive would 
never end. 

At length the light fell on no more rhododendrons, the 
avenue widened suddenly to a broad gravel space, and 
with a sweep and a clatter they drew up under a massive 
stone porch. Here it was almost as light as day, for the 
enormous doors had been flung wide open, and from the 
hall within the light burst out in a broad band. Ulrica was 
half-blinded with it, as, with Mr. Dunnet by her side, she 
mounted the carpeted steps. It was only when she had 
mounted the last step that she became aware of the two 
long rows of servants drawn up on each side of the hall : 
men in and out of livery on one side, beginning with a 
white-haired butler and ending with a tiny page-boy who 
might have been the fullstop put to a sentence ; and on the 
other side women, headed by a portly dame in a much 
more magnificent black silk dress than Ulrica herself had 
ever possessed, and ranging through all the stages of smil- 
ing, white-capped housemaids and buxom -faced kitchen 
helps, down to the most youthful of the scullery-maids, 
whose duties consisted solely in the emptying of the pails. 

Ulrica stood still, almost in dismay. ' Who are they all ? ’ 
she asked of Mr. Dunnet. 

‘ They are your servants,’ gently responded the lawyer. 

A sense of hopeless bewilderment came over Ulrica. 
Her servants! Why, there were at least thirty of them. 
She had never even known that there were people in the 
world who kept thirty servants. So astonished was she 
that all the response she made to the deep curtseys and 
profound inclinations which were being executed on both 
sides of her was a hasty and somewhat haughty nod. 


THE NEW HALL AND THE OLD. 263 

* Where is my room ? ’ she asked, turning to Mr. Dunnet. 
* I am very tired ; and can I have something to eat ? ’ 

Could she have something to eat ? Oh, blessed igno- 
rance ! As though the arrangement of the 7ne7iu for this, 
the first meal of which the new-made heiress was to partake 
under her own roof, had not been exercising Mr. Dunnet’s 
mind for at least a full week past ; for a family lawyer has 
occasionally got to play the part of a maid-of-all-work, and 
when there is no one else by whose obvious duty it is to plan 
illuminations or marshal the order of dishes, he has, per- 
force, to look to the thing himself. Anything to eat! As 
though Monsieur Maillac, the French chef de cuisme^ had 
not put his very best foot foremost in the concoction of 
eTitrees and sauces of which he felt confident that they could 
not fail to captivate the heart of even the most fastidious 
of heiresses ; as though the venerable butler had not con- 
descended to look to the silver himself, so that the brill- 
iancy of this inaugural dinner should not be dimmed by 
even a single speck upon a single fork ; and as though the 
head-gardener had not mercilessly ransacked his pet hot- 
houses in order to impress upon his new mistress a favor- 
able opinion of his taste in table decoration. All these 
people were trembling for their future ; each one knew that 
a single frown of the heiress would be enough to oust him 
from the comfortable berth so long occupied; each one 
therefore had strained his efforts to the utmost. But, oh, 
woful disappointment, oh, ignominious collapse 1 The 
new-made mistress of Morton Hall would not hear of sit- 
ting through an elaborate dinner; she would go to her 
room at once, and all she wanted was a mouthful of food 
sent there — a piece of bread-and-butter, a glass of milk, 
anything would do. Monsieur Maillac turned pale with an 
enraged disappointment when he heard the order given. 
The idea of that sauce au siipre77ie having been mixed in 
vain, and of that iced pineapple cream wasting its sweet- 
ness upon the desert air of the servants’ hall! Probably it 
was for this reason that this artist of the kitchen seemed 
inclined to view his new mistress unfavourably, when, half 
an hour later, impressions were being exchanged over the 
supper-table. Certainly it was rather trying for his temper 


264 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

to see James and Henry tucking in gleefully to the capon 
which had been roasted with such loving care, and to 
watch Anna Maria, the under-housemaid, smacking her 
lips over another of his chef-d' xuvres. It could only be his 
disappointment that had coloured his vision, for in general 
Monsieur Maillac was a pretty correct judge of female 
beauty. 

‘ She has no chic^ he pronounced disdainfully ; ‘ I say 
not that she is ugly, but chic? Pas du tout! ’ 

* I should like to know who could have chic in that gown 
she had on!’ retorted Mademoiselle Seraphine, the French 
maid whom Mr. Dunnet had temporarily engaged in Ul- 
rica’s name, though without consulting her. ‘ Wait till I 
begin to dress her! ’ 

‘It’s a gown I wouldn’t take if she were to make me a 
present of it to-morrow,’ giggled one of the housemaids. 
‘ Did you see the patch at the side ? ’ 

‘I saw the patch,’ meditatively replied James the foot- 
man, to whom both the giggle and the question seemed to 
be more especially addressed ; ‘ but I saw her heyes as 
well, and they seemed to me the wonderfullest blazers I 
ever did see.’ 

‘ And her hair,’ broke in Mademoiselle Seraphine, who 
seemed inclined to be enthusiastic, and who on this ac- 
count probably had not disdained to-night to grace the ser- 
vants’ hall with her somewhat meagre presence, ‘ sa cheve- 
lure! I just caught sight of a bit of the plait under her 
hat — so thick and dark! It will be a happiness to dress 
such hair!’ and the Frenchwoman’s nervous yellow fingers 
began to work about in the air, as though she were already 
operating on Ulrica’s head. ‘ J ust wait till you see her hair 
coiffe^ in a diadem over her forehead, comme ^a! and she in 
pink silk. She will be magnifique in pink silk, I tell you.’ 

Meanwhile the subject of these discussions had long 
since fallen fast asleep in the gorgeous four-poster, which 
she had at first failed to recognise as a bed, it seemed to 
her so much more like a miniature stage in a theatre, on 
which whole plays could conveniently be acted. She had 
been too desperately tired, however, to wonder very much 
at anything, and having resolutely declined all offers of as- 


THE NEW HALL AND THE OLD. 265 

sistance, had laid her head on the pillow and glided straight 
into dreamland. 

A gentle rustling sound in the room was the first thing 
that awakened her. She opened her eyes and saw that it 
was broad daylight, though the blinds were still down. 
Kneeling before the fireplace was a young woman in a lilac 
print dress and with a white muslin mob-cap on her head. 

^ What are you doing ? ’ asked Ulrica in surprise. 

‘ I’m lighting the fire, my lady, it’s a very cool morning.’ 

‘ But I never have a fire to get up by, and I always light 
it myself. What o’clock is it ? ’ 

‘ Eight o’clock, my lady.’ 

^ Good gracious ! ’ cried Ulrica, starting up in bed, ' two 
hours behind my time ! ’ 

Perhaps the astonishment on Anna Maria’s face reminded 
Ulrica of the true state of the case. She sank back again 
among her pillows. This was not the Marienhof, there 
were no cows to be milked, no pails to be scrubbed, no 
work waiting for her anywhere ; even the fire was being lit 
without her help, though, from force of habit, it was all that 
Ulrica could do not to spring to Anna Maria’s assistance. 
Now that she had realised the situation she felt in no par- 
ticular hurry to get up ; it was rather pleasant to lie thus 
still among the luxurious pillows, watching Anna Maria, as, 
the fire being lit, she began to move about the room, pull- 
ing up the blind and putting chairs straight. It was agree- 
able, and, above all, it was novel. The room itself was 
pleasant to look at, with its wonderful white-and-gold ceil- 
ing, its rococo furniture, and marble mantel-piece with the 
big mirror let in above. Yesterday she had been too tired 
to notice all this, but the long sleep had rested her, she was 
ready for new impressions. ‘And Lady Nevyll?’ The 
thought flashed into her mind while she still lay among her 
pillows. It was only now that she asked herself wonder- 
ingly where Lady Nevyll was all this time, why she had 
not seen her last night ? Impatience and curiosity sprang 
up once more like giants refreshed, and would not let her 
rest. She started up again, this time in good earnest. 

‘Where is Lady Nevyll?’ she asked of the housemaid 
who was just approaching the door. 


266 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

‘Lady Nevyll, my lady ? She’s at the Old Hall; she 
moved over there a fortnight ago.’ 

‘ Where is the Old Hall ? Is it far ? ’ 

‘ Not more than a mile across the park. Shall I bring 
you your hot water, my lady ? ’ 

‘ Hot water? What for? I don’t need any hot water. 
Yes, you can go, I don’t want anything.’ 

Ulrica began to dress hastily, but presently, as she 
passed by the window, she stood still in surprise. The 
view she was gazing upon was not in reality half so beau- 
tiful as the view which was to be seen from any single 
window of the Marienhof, but its features were entirely 
novel to Ulrica. There everything had been pure nature, 
here everything was unmixed art. It had cost centuries of 
time and millions of money to create such a park as this 
in the midst of such a country as this, a flat and feature- 
less tract of land which on one side stretched unbroken to 
the horizon, while on the other a line of low hills formed a 
distant border. But there are few things which money 
and time cannot do ; it was a magnificent stretch of park 
which lay unrolled before Ulrica’s eyes, colourless still, in- 
deed, and rigid in its winter leaflessness, but foreshadow- 
ing, in its glimpses of deep glades, and in its hints of 
winding alleys, the summer beauties that were to come. 
When those noble breadths of lawn should have brightened 
into emerald, and those branches that were now cut like a 
black fretwork against the sky would be feathered with 
the leaves of elm and beech, how glorious the prospect 
must be. Several men were at work raking the flower-beds 
which bordered the lawn immediately in front of the house ; 
a wheelbarrow with some of the very first weeds of the 
season was just being wheeled out of sight ; signs of care 
and order were visible everywhere. And all this belonged 
to her, all these people were working in her service ; it did 
not seem possible to realise this as a fact. 

When her toilet was completed it was almost guiltily 
that Ulrica, with her hat and jacket on, stole down the wide 
staircase to the hall below. She did not want to meet Mr. 
Dunnet and to be questioned as to the object of this early 
walk. That nine o’clock is not an hour at which first 


THE NEW HALL AND THE OLD. 


267 


visits, or visits of any sort, were paid, Ulrica was not aware. 
To her nine o’clock meant at least the middle of the fore- 
noon, and she started to call on Lady Nevyll with quite as 
easy a mind as though she were starting for her round of 
sick-calls at Glockenau. If she wished to avoid Mr. Dun- 
net, it was solely because she feared to betray her motive. 

One mile across the park, the housemaid had said; 
that was nothing to Ulrica, and as for the direction, there 
would be sure to be plenty of people about from whom 
she could ask her way. Ulrica struck out at haphazard 
across the park, following the first alley on which she 
chanced, and never once turning her head until the road 
led her to a raised mound on which stood one single mag- 
nificent plane tree with a bench running round its trunk. 
There Ulrica instinctively stood still and looked about 
her. She almost exclaimed aloud in her astonishment. 
What was that splendid pile of building, looming in its 
chilly grandeur against the mass of woods behind ? Surely 
a palace fit for a king. The tall pillared centre and the 
v/ide-speading wings of the palace-like mansion stood 
bathed in the first burst of morning sunshine. Ulrica 
rubbed her eyes and looked again. Was that really the 
house she had just left? Was that Morton Hall? Her 
house ? It seemed scarcely credible. With a feeling of 
increasing wonder she pursued her way. Presently she 
began to grow impatient. It seemed to her that there 
were no limits to her domain. Wooded tracts, rich past- 
ures, deep glades, she passed by all these in a never-ending 
succession, she asked her way over and over again of a 
stray gamekeeper, of a labourer who was mending a wire 
fence, of a village boy engaged in a surreptitious birdnest- 
ing expedition, and always the answer was the same — she 
was still on the private ground of the New Hall. The 
‘ New ’ Hall happened to be a couple of hundred years old, 
but in contradistinction to the dower-house, which was a 
couple of hundred years older, it was generally thus desig- 
nated. 

Somewhat breathless and very hungry, Ulrica stood at 
length on what was obviously a public thoroughfare, and 
now she had not much more to do than to cross the high- 


268 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


road in order to be within the grounds of the Old Hall, 
which with its mantle of ivy was a far less stately, but a 
much more quaint and picturesque, building than the chief 
residence. 

Coming in by the open gate, Ulrica found herself all at 
once close to the house, and with a momentary feeling of 
dismay her pace slackened. She was about to see Gil- 
bert’s widow, and her heart beat tumultuously at the 
thought. For the first time she wondered in what state of 
mind she should find Lady Nevyll. She could never have 
loved Gilbert, that was certain — not as Ulrica, despite the 
bitterness in her heart, knew that she loved him — ^but yet, 
was it not possible that she was weeping for him ? Might 
not the awfulness of death have melted that icy barrier 
which stood between them? To have been Gilbert’s wife 
for so many years, to have been loved by that so false and 
fickle and yet so lovable man, and to have remained un- 
touched by the magic of his presence — it seemed so incred- 
ible to Ulrica that something like a fellow-feeling of pity 
stole into her generous heart, making her forget for one 
moment that this woman was her rival, and letting her re- 
member only that they were both mourning for one man. 
At the very least surely she must dwell on his memory with 
remorseful regret, and unconsciously Ulrica stepped more 
lightly over the gravel, as though not to disturb the new- 
made widow’s meditations. 

The house-door stood open, showing a long stone- 
flagged hall within. Ulrica entered and looked about her ; 
there was no servant visible anywhere, but a flight of steep, 
old-fashioned steps led to the floor above. She mounted 
boldly, and then hesitated once more at the sight of the 
various doors, all absolutely alike with their heavy oaken 
carving. But her hesitation was not for long ; behind one 
of the doors voices could be distinctly heard. She walked 
towards it and turned the handle without any preliminary 
knock, for nobody ever knocked at a door at Glockenau, 
and Ulrica had not yet learnt the usages of English 
society. 


/ 


THE ‘ FEW WEEKS.’ 


269 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

THE ‘few weeks.’ 

The room which Ulrica thus incontinently invaded 
happened to be the dressing-room which adjoined Lady 
Nevyll’s bedroom, and here her ladyship was spending the 
morning in the company of her maid, and of various as- 
sortments of patterns, and of a choice of fashion-plates 
which lay strewn in gay disorder over chairs and carpet. 
She was trying on a white lace cap with lilac ribbons be- 
fore the mirror. ‘ I suppose it is quite impossible to wear 
hlac for a year,’ she was saying, in a somewhat aggrieved 
tone, as Ulrica entered the room. 

There was on both sides a pause of utter astonishment ; 
Lady Nevyll rose from her chair with the cap still on her 
head, and the two women looked at each other during a 
moment of complete silence. What Ulrica saw was a fair- 
haired, faded woman, with an eager flush on her cheek, 
a fashion-plate in her hand, another lying at her feet, and 
in place of the widow’s cap the white lace and lilac rib- 
bons in her hair. What Charlotte, on her side, saw, was a 
shabbily dressed young girl, whose beauty burst upon her 
sight with a shock of surprise so great, that it struck her 
dumb for the moment. 

It was thus that Ulrica and Charlotte first met ; on both 
sides the impression was disagreeable. On Charlotte, this 
vision of youthfulness and strength, coming upon her so 
unexpectedly, had something of the effect of an overstrong 
light upon weak eyes. It was no thought of how their 
fates had been intertwined in the past which was here at 
work, for at this moment she had not even attempted to 
guess who Ulrica might be ; neither was it any mystic pre- 
sentiment as to the manner in which their fates were to be 
intertwined in the future, for mystic presentiments are not 
of nearly such frequent occurrence as a certain class of 
modem novelists would have us suppose : it was simply 


270 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

that Ulrica’s vivid beauty and magnificent vitality were al- 
most overpowering to a woman of Charlotte’s special con- 
stitution of mind. With her parted lips and the bright 
colour on her cheeks brought there by the brisk walk, she 
looked like the very personification of youth and health. 
Even the whiff of March air which she brought with her 
into the room, and even the splashes of mud on her village- 
made boots, served to accentuate the picture. 

Ulrica was no less chilled by the sight of Charlotte 
than Charlotte had been by her first glance at Ulrica. 
Her very first thought, it is true, had been one of exulta- 
tion. ‘ She can never have been half so beautiful as I am,’ 
was what flashed through her mind, but indignation fol- 
lowed quickly. The scene brought back to her memory 
another scene in which she had played the part of actor 
instead of spectator : the day on which the landlady of the 
‘ Golden Sun ’ had surprised her twining a red ribbon in 
her hair. It was for Gilbert that she had been making 
herself beautiful; for whom could Charlotte Nevyll be 
decking herself to-day ? 

' Are you my cousin Gilbert’s widow ? ’ she asked, after 
that pause. 

There was such a strange reproach in the tone and in 
the questioning eyes fixed upon her, that Charlotte col- 
oured uneasily. 

‘ I don’t quite understand,’ she replied, in some confu- 
sion; ‘are you then the cousin? Are you Countess 
Eldringen ? ’ 

‘Yes, I am the cousin, I came last night.’ She paused 
for a moment, and then added abruptly : ‘ Do widows in 
England not wear black ? ’ 

‘ Of course,’ said Charlotte hurriedly, ‘ of course they 
wear black. This was only a — a rehearsal,’ and she at- 
tempted to smile. Ulrica made no reply, but remained 
standing where she was, in a strong and obstinate silence. 

‘Will you let me show you the way to the drawing- 
room,’ said Charlotte, with a nervous glance at the maid. 
‘ We shall be quieter there.’ 

Ulrica was on the point of turning on her heel and leav- 
ing both the room and the house, but her curiosity with re- 


THE ‘ FEW WEEKS.’ 


271 


gard to Gilbert’s widow was not yet quite satisfied, so she 
silently followed Charlotte to the drawing-room. 

‘ It was very kind of you to come so soon,’ was the first 
obvious remark to make, and the one with which Charlotte 
broke the somewhat strained silence. 

‘ I came here to-day meaning to condole with you,’ an- 
swered Ulrica, with a bitterness which would not be re- 
pressed. ‘ I thought you might feel lonely and sad, but I 
see that I was mistaken.’ 

‘ Of course, I feel very lonely,’ agreed Charlotte, ‘ espe- 
cially since — ’ she had been going to say ‘ since last month,’ 
but checked herself in time. She felt more at her ease 
now, since she was no longer so openly exposed to Ulrica’s 
steady gaze. 

‘Were you not unhappy? Not even for a moment? 
Not even at first?’ broke out Ulrica, straining for every 
sign on Charlotte’s face. She was determined to know 
whether this woman felt absolutely nothing for Gilbert. 

Charlotte raised her finely marked eyebrows. This 
young Austrian savage had a directness about her which 
certainly verged on the eccentric. 

‘ Oh, of course,’ she answered, with vague indifference, 
‘ it has all been very sad. It was a most melancholy way 
to end.’ 

Ulrica made a quick gesture expressive of impatience. 

‘ I suppose it does not take very long to get over the 
loss of a husband,’ she remarked, still in that tone of ill- 
repressed bitterness. ‘ I cannot judge, of course, for I 
have never had a husband ; but still, I should have thought 
it would take rather more than three months.’ 

‘ I daresay that partly depends upon what sort of a hus- 
band one has,’ said Charlotte, with a sudden gleam in her 
blue eyes. After all, why should she be at the trouble of 
playing the comedy of the heart-broken widow before this 
distant cousin of her deceased husband? The whole 
world would very soon know of the happiness that was 
in store for her, so why trouble to keep on the irksome 
mask ? 

Ulrica got up quickly from her chair ; she felt that she 
had learnt all that she wanted to know. 

18 


272 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

‘Are you going?’ asked Charlotte, in civil surprise. 
‘You have only just sat down.’ 

Before Ulrica had time to answer the door was flung 
open and Mr. Dunnet, rather breathless and with his hair 
more on end than usual, was ushered in. 

‘ Thank Heaven, Countess ! I could not imagine what 
had become of you. If it had not been for your having 
inquired the distance to the Old Hall, I should have had 
no clue. I was afraid you might have lost your way. I 
brought the brougham in case you should wish to drive 
home ; but possibly the ladies have planned to spend the 
day together ’ — and he looked from one to the other. 

‘ No, we have planned nothing of the sort,’ answered 
Ulrica promptly. ‘I should like to go home at once, 
please.’ 

‘ You came just at the right moment,’ she said to Mr. 
Dunnet when they were seated in the brougham, accom- 
panying her words with an excited laugh, which greatly 
astonished the family lawyer. ‘ If you had been a minute 
later. Lady Nevyll and I would have quaiTelled hope- 
lessly.’ 

And then she relapsed into silence, and no other word 
was spoken during the rest of the short drive. Mr. Dun- 
net was telling himself that this Austrian Countess, whom 
with such difficulty he had persuaded to come to England, 
might possibly be rather troublesome to manage now that 
she was here ; and Ulrica, on her side, was deep in her own 
reflections. To think that if this woman had not been, 
there would have been no obstacle between Gilbert and 
herself! This woman, who had not one tear to spare for 
his memory, who held her widowhood in such light ac- 
count — that widowhood of which Ulrica was so fiercely 
jealous — that she was already counting the days to the 
time when the rigours of etiquette would permit her to wear 
lilac ribbons. Lilac ribbons, indeed ! It seemed to Ul- 
rica that she must ever after hate that special shade of 
lilac. She was in a hard and bitter mood this morning. 
The pity she had been ready to give had not been wanted, 
and, being turned back upon itself, it had brought about 
the reaction of a violent dislike. It seemed so much 


THE ‘ FEW WEEKS.’ 


273 


harder to have been robbed of Gilbert by a woman who 
made no pretence of even feeling his loss. 

This first day at Morton, which had begun so strangely 
for Ulrica, flowed on evenly after the event of the morn- 
ing, and yet every step which she took was in itself a 
strange and wonderful event. 

When, after breakfast, Mr. Dunnet respectfully asked 
leave to conduct her through the house, it was in a state 
of awed stupefaction that Ulrica followed him from room 
to room, passing from an apartment that glowed in ruby 
plush and dull gilding to one that shone with sea-green 
brocade and Venetian crystal, mounting wide staircases 
and treading stately galleries that were hung with tapes- 
tries which a connoisseur would have recognised as being 
entirely unique and almost priceless, listening, without un- 
derstanding them, to dissertations on the gems of statuary 
which here and there graced some cunningly devised niches, 
or on the paintings, ancient and modem, with which even 
the staircases were decorated with reckless profusion. 

It was all too extraordinary to be true ; it would have 
reminded Ulrica of something in a fairy tale, if she had ever 
been able to indulge in fairy tales as a child. As it was, it 
bewildered her so completely that of necessity it missed 
some of its effect. It was only when — the front regions 
being exploited — Mr. Dunnet led the way to the back 
premises that she was able to form something like an esti- 
mate of the wealth at her command. She understood 
nothing of statuary or of the relative value of ‘ old ’ and 
* new * masters ; but when Mr. Dunnet took her into a room 
which was lined with cupboards on whose shelves, as he told 
her, was piled linen to the value of two thousand pounds, 
when he showed her another which contained within its 
four walls china which had been estimated at more than 
five times that figure, then she began to see her way a little 
more clearly. These things presented distinct ideas to her 
mind. But it was the kitchen which put the crown to 
everything — such a kitchen, the vision of which, one would 
fancy, might tantalise a good housekeeper in a happy dream. 
Such rows of burnished coppers, such a battery of pans, such 
gradations of pudding moulds ! And the long rows of 


274 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


shelves, white as the driven snow. ‘ Why, it is as big, I 
believe, as the whole Marienhof together!’ exclaimed Ul- 
rica in genuine delight. It was impossible for any woman 
who had ever so much as boiled a potato or stirred a bowl 
of soup not to feel — to use a German expression — her heart 
laughing in her body at sight of that kitchen. 

‘ And does all that, does everything in this house really 
belong to me ? ' she asked for the third or fourth time as 
they retraced their steps. 

‘Undoubtedly,’ said Mr. Dunnet, unable to repress a 
smile. 

‘ And these people, all these servants — do you mean that 
they will do what I tell them, that they will actually obey 
the orders I give them ? ’ 

‘ They are here for that sole purpose. Countess.’ 

‘ And can I have my eggs cooked every day in that de- 
licious way they were cooked this morning f Will that man 
in the kitchen, that Frenchman with the white cap on, do 
them for me ? ’ 

‘ Of course he will, that is his business.’ 

‘ And if I wanted to drive out, for instance, do you mean 
that I could — ’ 

‘ You would only have to touch the bell and order the 
carriage.’ 

‘ Then I have a carriage of my own ? ’ 

‘ You have nine different vehicles of your own, beginning 
with a drag and ending with a basket pony-carriage. You 
have only to say whether you want the brougham or the 
Victoria. I was just about to propose an adjournment to 
the stables, but perhaps you are tired ? ’ 

Ulrica was not tired, but she was too much dazed with 
the many things she had seen to feel inclined for any more 
to-day. 

‘ I can go to the stables another day,’ she said to Mr. 
Dunnet ; ‘ there is time enough yet, I don’t suppose I shall 
be starting back for at least a fortnight or three weeks.’ 

Mr. Dunnet made no reply, but silently inclined himself, 
perhaps partly for the purpose of hiding the smile which 
had again risen to his lips. His opportunities of studying 
human nature had been different from those of the la.ndlady 


THE ‘ FEW WEEKS.’ 


275 


of the ‘ Golden Sun/ and yet he believed as little as she 
did that the heiress would return to Glockenau in a few 
weeks. 

It was during the afternoon of this same day that Ulrica, 
sitting alone in one of the drawing-rooms, and very much 
puzzled what to do with herself, heard a rustle of silk at 
the door, followed by a pause, a short cough, and then by 
a discreet knock. It was the same stately dame whom she 
had seen heading the line of female servants last night who 
now accepted her invitation to enter. She had been intro- 
duced to Ulrica as Mrs. Moore, the housekeeper. 

Mrs. Moore had evidently got something on her mind. 
Despite the air of dignified resolution with which she rustled 
up to where Ulrica sat, she was not without some inward 
trepidation as to the result of what she was going to do, 
but no less determined to do it for the honor of the family, 
for Mrs. Moore had served the Nevylls almost as long as 
Mr. Dunnet. 

‘ If I may be so free as to put a question, my lady,’ she 
began, her mittened hands crossed decorously before her, 
^ are you expecting any further luggage from abroad ? or 
is that box all that you have brought with you ? ’ 

‘ All I have brought with me ? ’ repeated Ulrica, looking 
up fit)m the album she had been listlessly examining. ‘ I 
should think so! Why, it is almost all I possess in the 
world. That is to say,’ she corrected herself, glancing 
round her with a startled air at the plush furniture and 
Turkey carpets, ' all that I had till — till now.’ 

‘ Then, my lady,’ pursued Mrs. Moore firmly, ‘I am so 
bold as to remark that it is a pity to lose any time in order- 
ing your new gowns. The one you have on just now — 
I take the liberty of saying it — is not exactly — well, not 
exactly the sort of gown in which the neighbourhood is 
accustomed to see the mistress of Morton Hall.’ 

Mrs. Moore drew a deep breath and rearranged the posi- 
tion of her mittened hands. She felt that her duty to the 
family was fulfilled, and there was nothing to do now 
but to await the result. 

^ My dress 1 ’ said Ulrica, looking down at her skirt in 
surprise. ‘ Is there anything wrong with it I Oh, I see, 


276 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

that patch,’ as her eye fell upon the square piece put in 
just hard by her right knee. She remembered now that 
during her inspection of the house in the forenoon she had 
been rather startled by coming upon her own image in a 
full-length mirror in one of the galleries. The patch at 
her knee had certainly looked rather incongruous reflected 
from that magnificent surface. She glanced now from her 
own dress to that of Mrs. Moore, and the absurdity of the 
situation forced itself upon her. 

‘ Well, yes,’ she said, ‘ I suppose I shall need a new 
dress. Is there any place near where I can buy some 
stuff ? Is there a sewing-machine in the house ? I could 
make it much quicker if I had a machine.’ 

‘ Surely, my lady, you would not be making it yourself ? ’ 
gasped Mrs. Moore, flushing a deep scarlet from sheer 
astonishment. 

‘ Why not ? I made this one myself.’ 

‘ I suppose that was when — that is, during the time that 
your means were more limited,’ said Mrs. Moore, some- 
what embarrassed how delicately to express her meaning. 

‘ But why should you trouble yourself with that now, my 
lady ? ’ 

Ulrica looked at her thoughtfully. What the house- 
keeper said was true. Why should she trouble herself 
now ? Why should she prick her fingers and spoil her eyes 
over the threading of needles since she could pay other 
people to prick their fingers for her ? 

‘ But I don’t know how to order a dress ; I have never 
done so in my life,’ she exclaimed. ‘ What ought I to do ? ’ 

‘ Why, my lady, you need only write r line to Madame 
Browne, who has made Lady Nevyll’s dresses these last ten 
years, and she’ll send down a dressmaker to take your 
measure by the next train ; or it would be better still to 
telegraph.’ 

‘ But won’t all that cost a terrible amount of money ? ’ 
asked Ulrica, aghast. 

Mrs. Moore looked at her new mistress steadily for a 
minute. ' Do you know, my lady, how much the late 
Lady Nevyll, that is. Sir Gilbert’s mother, spent on her 
dress yearly? It was never less than three thousand 


THE ‘ FEW WEEKS.* 


277 

pounds, and she could have spent double as much as that 
without as much as feeling it.’ 

/Oh, well,’ said Ulrica, with a short laugh, ‘then I sup- 
pose I can afford the dressmaker.’ 

During the days that followed, it began by slow degrees 
to be borne in upon Ulrica’s mind that she could afford 
not only the dressmaker, but also a variety of other things 
which until now had seemed to her as unattainable as cas- 
[tles in the clouds. It took her a little time entirely to 
realise the power she possessed. During the first week of 
her stay at Morton she had been so little acquainted with 
the use of bells and so much in the habit still of waiting 
on herself that the horrified domestics were more than once 
startled by the Countess appearing unannounced in the 
kitchen or the servants’ hall, in quest of a glass of water 
or a clothes-brush. But during the second week already it 
began to afford her a strange, childish pleasure to test 
her new power by a variety of experiments, attempted at 
first almost timidly, but by degrees with a growing confi- 
dence. 

At this time it not infrequently happened that Ulrica 
would ring up the footman or the butler, merely for the 
sake of convincing herself that her summons would actually 
be obeyed ; and when she then ordered a fresh log to be 
put on the fire or a blind to be drawn up or down, she 
would stand by in speechless astonishment at seeing her re- 
quest fulfilled on the instant, just as though it were the 
most natural thing in the world. 

Nothing is so terribly easy as the getting out of the 
habit of privation and discomfort and into the habit of 
bodily ease and luxury. It is as easy as slipping down hill, 
and very much pleasanter. Ulrica, moreover, had a cer- 
tain aptitude for learning the lessons of riches, an instinct- 
ive appreciation of them which she had inherited, on her 
father’s side, from a long line of ancestors. A mind laid 
out on such broad and simple lines as was hers must ever 
be chafed by the narrow restrictions of poverty, the petty 
manoeuvrings which are necessary in order to induce the 
wolf to keep at a decent distance from the door. It was 
astonishing how quickly her first diffidence wore off ; to 


278 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

her somewhat imperious disposition, the giving of orders 
could not fail to come more easily than the taking of them, 
and before she had reigned a fortnight in her new king- 
dom, this girl, who a month ago had been scrubbing deal 
boards on her knees, found it quite natural that a liveried 
footman should stand behind her chair, and had even got 
over the shock of unbounded astonishment she had felt on 
seeing grapes and peaches on the table in March and hear- 
ing that they were grown in her own hot-houses. 

‘ She do make queer mistakes,’ commented the old butler 
in the servants’ hall, ‘ but it’s my opinion that she has a 
natural haptitude for being a lady, for all that she didn’t 
seem to know what to do with her finger-glass till Mrs. 
Moore told her.’ 

Ulrica still told herself that she was certainly going back 
to Glockenau in a few weeks ; but by degrees she began to 
concede that nothing but her own will bound her to those 
* few weeks,’ and that there was no reason whatever why 
they should not be expanded into a few months. There 
would come moments even when the idea of not going 
back at all would present itself to her mind as a possibility. 
Why should she return to hunger and cold after having 
tasted of better things, which by all the laws of right and 
common sense were hers, and hers alone ? But as yet she 
had always put the thought angrily from her. 

' It is his money. I cannot take it,’ she would say be- 
tween her set teeth. For amid the maze of new sensations 
which pressed in upon her on all sides, there was one thing 
which never wavered or changed or left her for a moment, 
the dull heartache which underlay every thought and feel- 
ing, and the bitter anger which would have stamped out 
that pain if it could, and which yet was itself an insepara- 
ble part of the pain. The surroundings were peculiarly 
suitable to keeping the wound fresh, and, perhaps for this 
very reason, Ulrica felt it growing daily more difficult to 
say good-bye to the place. At every step there was some- 
thing that spoke of Gilbert : there was the room he had 
occupied, the horse he had ridden, some tree in the park 
he had planted ; there were portraits of him in every stage 
of childhood and manhood ; there was his nursery upstairs ; 


THE ‘ FEW WEEKS.’ 


279 


his name was forever in the mouths of the old servants of 
the family. And all these things served to keep alive not 
only her love, but also her anger, against the man of whom 
she was determined to believe that he had been false to 
her, and for whom yet all the time her heart was breaking. 

Meanwhile the ‘ few weeks ’ and even the few months 
had passed, the trees in the park were green, the flower- 
beds in the garden were on fire with geraniums and cal- 
ceolarias, and Ulrica told Mr. Dunnet that she did not 
think she would return to Austria before autumn. Mr. 
Dunnet highly approved, as also he highly approved of the 
directions she gave him one day with regard to the satisfy- 
ing of her father’s creditors. This last step seemed to him 
like a distinct concession, the first symptom that the heiress 
was beginning to abandon the position which she had 
hitherto so obstinately maintained. 

But it needed something more in order to turn the scale. 
As yet, Ulrica had tasted only of the comforts which belong 
to wealth, scarcely yet of that sense of importance which 
is borne in upon the mind only by contact with the outer 
world. Above all, she knew nothing of that intoxicating 
power which beauty added to great riches infallibly brings 
to its owner. Hitherto she had shrunk from meeting 
strangers, and had flatly refused to receive all visitors. 
She could not in common decency avoid seeing Lady 
Nevyll occasionally, but the intercourse between the Old 
and the New Hall remained both languid and frigid. The 
accidental circumstances attending their first meeting had 
determined the groove in which their relations to each 
other were to run. On Charlotte’s side, too, it could not 
be denied that a little unacknowledged grudge was at 
work. No woman ever enjoys giving up her place to an- 
other, even if she has hated being in that place before ; and 
it lay in Charlotte’s nature to turn from that which she 
possessed an*d to yearn for that which she had not. Since 
she was no longer the mistress of Morton Hall, she found 
the position ever so much more enviable than it had ap- 
peared to her while she held it. 

How much longer Ulrica would have remained reduced 
to this scanty and unsatisfactory intercourse, it is hard to 


28o a queen of curds and cream. 

say ; but all at once Mrs. Byrd burst upon the scene, and 
immediately matters took another turn. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

THE 'marsh.’ 

The lion hunter had been away from home for some 
months, for she always managed to spend the season, or at 
any rate a respectable slice of it, in London, even though 
only in lodgings, and even though she had to turn and re- 
turn her dinner-dresses year by year in order to meet the 
exigencies of the situation. London was her great hunt- 
ing-ground, and the season was the hunting-time during 
which she generally collected celebrities enough to last her 
for the rest of the year. She had just come back now, 
dragging a French statesman and a Russian tragedian in 
tow, and with the prospect of a rising violinist to follow 
shortly ; but her hunger was not yet appeased. Scarcely 
had she made her statesman and her tragedian as comfort- 
able as the resources of Collingwood would permit, than 
she started off straight to Morton. This Austrian savage 
who had become the mistress of Morton Hall in such a 
truly sensational manner, and whose personality was still 
wrapped in a certain gloom of mystery, would be an in- 
valuable addition to her collection. 

‘ It’s no use your going,’ one of Mrs. Byrd’s intimates 
said to her. ‘ She won’t receive you. We’ve all been 
turned off at the door.’ 

shall not be turned off,’ answered the lion hunter, 
with a gleam of desperate determination in her bottle-green 
eyes. 

Even when met at the door by the information that 
Countess Eldringen was not at home, Mrs. Byrd was far 
from baffled. By a series of searching questions she dragged 
from the reluctant butler, who, though both by nature and 
training reticent, became helpless in her hands, all that she 


THE ‘ MARSH.’ 


281 


required to know, viz., that in the first place the Countess 
was really and truly not at home, and in the second place 
that she had given the order to drive to Nevyll Bank, and 
that she therefore presumably was at this moment on the 
‘ marsh.’ 

‘To Nevyll Bank, then,’ directed Mrs. Byrd, as she set- 
tled herself in the corner of the carriage. ‘ She can’t 
escape me if she’s on the marsh,’ was her satisfied reflec- 
tion. ‘ There’s only one road that leads there, to begin 
with, and unless she lies down flat behind a bank, she can’t 
hide from me once I’m there. Why, you can see a cat for 
half a mile off on the “ marsh ” almost as plainly as a cow.’ 

This was by no means the first afternoon that Ulrica 
was spending upon the part of the estate which was known 
as the ‘ marsh.’ From the very beginning, when with Mr. 
Dunnet she had made the entire round of the Morton lands, 
this out-of-the-way comer had had for her a special fasci- 
nation. It was a dull and uninteresting country they passed 
through on these excursions, flat turnip-fields, flat meadows, 
flatter roads. The farmhouses were built of the most un- 
interesting bricks ; the barns were well stocked, but hideous 
to look at ; the fences were in excellent repair, but yet to the 
eye a dreary substitute for flowering hedges. The ‘ marsh ’ 
alone had not yet been invaded by this atmosphere of 
prosperous conventionality. Its days indeed were num- 
bered, like those of some untamed urchin who will pres- 
ently have attained the school-going age, but who mean- 
while is allowed to run wild at his will. In less than a 
year, most likely, the moment would have come for the 
final closing of the great earth-bank which had been begun 
three years ago, and by the erection of which the Morton 
estate would be the richer by eleven hundred acres of land 
successfully reclaimed from the sea. ‘To him that hath 
shall be given ’ — no truer word has ever been uttered ; and 
in order to make its truth more evident Fate had settled that 
the Morton estate, which in all conscience was big enough 
already, should by the gradual retreat of the waters in the 
estuary of the river Dibble, which here merged into the 
sea, be continually growing bigger. 

The strangeness of the phenomenon, as well as the vast- 


282 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

ness of the undertaking, had captivated Ulrica’s fancy 
from the first. There was a certain element of excitement 
in this struggle, by which acre after acre was tom from the 
grasp of the greedy salt water, which to her nature was 
peculiarly congenial. She would stand by for hours watch- 
ing the men at work upon the banks, and listening to the 
explanations given to her by the white-haired engineer, 
who had grown up, so to say, upon the Morton ‘ marsh,’ 
and who with a sort of tender pride initiated her into all 
the mysteries of ' soak-ditches,’ and ‘ gooters,’ and ‘ training- 
walls.’ 

But it was not her interest in the work alone which drew 
her to the spot, it was the spot itself which had a special 
charm for her. Here there was an escape from the well- 
kept fences and well-manured fields, for here as yet there 
grew nothing but samphire and great tufts of bent-grass, 
except when in early summer the wide, flat surface was 
flushed rosy-red with delicate sea-pinks. Instead of the 
monotonous roads there were irregular winding cart-tracks, 
or the mere shadow of a foot-path trodden into being by 
the workmen, and washed out of sight by every high 
spring-tide which, entering between the sections of the sea- 
bank, still covered the surface of the half-reclaimed land. 
Here Ulrica loved to come when she felt in want of a 
change from the magnificence of Morton Hall. Here, 
with the salt air blowing in her face, with the sea-pinks 
shuddering near her on their stalks, and some stray sea-gull 
winging it wildly over her head, she felt stronger to fight 
down the pain which would sometimes clutch at her heart 
unawares. The long habit of hard work had made a cer- 
tain amount of physical exertion an absolute necessity for 
her, and on the ‘ marsh ’ she could walk herself tired without 
ever having even to nod her head in return for some ten- 
ant’s respectful salutation. If she did not happen to be in 
the mood for listening to the old engineer’s endless disserta- 
tions on what had been the work of his life, she had only 
to avoid the corner where the workmen were busy about 
the bank in order to have the eleven hundred acres of salt- 
flavoured wilderness entirely to herself, or at most to share 
it with a few cows who splashed lazily through the greater 


THE ‘MARSH.’ 


283 


and lesser pools of sea-water which the last high tide had 
left standing stagnant among the patches of samphire and 
the tufts of rank grass. 

When Mrs. Byrd reached Nevyll Bank, she proceeded 
to make inquiries. Nevyll Bank was nothing else than 
what fifty years ago had been the original coast-line, and 
though the tract immediately beyond it had been under 
cultivation for close upon twenty years, there was no possi- 
bility of confounding the old land and the land reclaimed. 
It was not only the abrupt fall of some twelve to fifteen 
feet in the level which so sharply defined the boundary, 
there were many other features more prominent still ; for 
instance, the more absolute and, so to say, aggravated flat- 
ness of the surface, and the utter absence of trees beyond 
the old coast-line. 

‘ Is the Countess on the “ marsh ” or not ? ’ inquired Mrs. 
Byrd severely of the civil white-capped woman who ap- 
peared beside the carriage. Just where the road dipped 
down from the higher to the lower level there stood a 
small building, which was something between a farmhouse 
and an inn, and which did a good business in bacon and 
brandy supplied to the workmen on the ‘ marsh.’ There 
existed a legend to the effect that some time or other in 
the ‘ thirties ’ a ship had been wrecked on this very spot of 
the then coast, and possibly for this reason, though there 
was no signboard to the inn, it was popularly designed by 
the cheerful epithet of the ‘ Dead Sailor’s Home.’ 

The white-capped woman, who kept the ' Dead Sailor’s 
Home,’ having assured Mrs. Byrd that the Morton pony- 
carriage had not yet repassed the inn, that lady felt that 
she had successfully run her quarry to earth. The ‘ Dead 
Sailor ’ was virtually the key to the ‘ marsh ’ — there was no 
danger now of this newest of lions escaping her. The old 
tract of reclaimed land — a tract over which waves had once 
rolled, and where turnips now grew peacefully and oats 
luxuriantly nodded — was traversed at a brisk pace. At 
the end of the oat-fields there ran a high bank which 
marked the end of cultivation, and here Mrs. Byrd was 
further cheered by the sight of an elegantly appointed 
pony-carriage drawn up at the side of the road. Here 


284 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

too, perforce, she had to leave her vehicle, for the road 
properly speaking came to an end, and on the other side 
of the bank, the green ‘ marsh ’ was still having it all its 
own way. 

‘ There she is ! ’ said Mrs. Byrd triumphantly, as she 
stood on the edge of the territory to be invaded, having 
swept her eye only once around over the verdant expanse. 
Mrs. Byrd had been right enough when she had argued that 
the ‘ marsh ’ was not the place in which to play hide-and- 
seek. Owing to the absence of anything higher than a tuft 
of grass, every moving object was not only clearly visible at 
a distance, but had a strange and weird knack of appearing 
about double its natural size. A cow that was cropping 
the grass beside the centre drain — a wide shallow canal 
cut to catch the superfluous sea-water — seemed to be as 
big as an elephant. Ulrica herself, whom Mrs. Byrd had 
espied standing on the flat top of one of the sections of the 
sea-bank, might have been taken for some colossal figure 
of stone, made several times larger than life. 

‘ It will cost me a pair of boots,’ reflected Mrs. Byrd, 
eying the pools of water mistrustfully, for the ‘ marsh ’ was 
more than usually marshy to-day, owing to an abnormally 
high spring-tide by which it had lately been visited ; ‘ but I 
have not come all this way to be baffled in the end, so here 
goes ! ’ And picking up her skirts, she boldly advanced. 
The prestige to be gained by being the first person who had 
actually interviewed the Austrian heiress was well worth a 
pair of boots. 

Ulrica, standing immovable on the bank and staring out 
with throbbing brow over the wide expanse of bare sands 
which stretched out to the distant sea, remained unaware of 
the attack that was preparing. The wind which whistled 
past her ear would have deadened every other noise, even 
if the thick, soft grass had not muffled the sound of ap- 
proaching footsteps. When she turned her head at last by 
chance, she was astonished to see an unknown lady care- 
fully picking her way along, with her skirt held W'ell out of 
reach of the damp, and already drawing close to the bank. 
Mrs. Byrd being in her best gown and with her ‘ visiting ’ 
bonnet on her head, the effect was so irresistible that Ulrica 


THE ‘ MARSH.’ 


285 

broke into an uncontrollable laugh, upon which the visitor 
looked up and with the utmost good-humour joined in the 
expression of mirth. 

‘Yes, I suppose I do look rather comical,’ she remarked, 
as she reached the bank and began the ascent somewhat 
breathlessly ; ‘ and of course it is terribly unceremonious for 
a first call — absolutely shocking, some people would call it ; 
but ceremonies never stop me when I have made up my 
mind to anything — ^just as little as puddles of water do — 
and I had made up my mind to see you to-day.’ 

‘To see me? ’ repeated Ulrica, in astonishment. ‘But I 
don’t understand.’ 

‘ Of course not ; you don’t even know who I am. I am 
Mrs. Byrd, and I live at Collingwood. I only got down 
from town two days ago, and as I don’t approve of near 
neighbours ignoring each other, I came to call on you to- 
day. I know you receive no visitors, but you see that I 
can manage to get myself received “ whether or no.” And 
now, of course, you can turn me out of the “ marsh ” if 
you choose, but I do hope you will let me get back my 
breath first. May I sit down for five minutes ? This bank 
is the only dry spot for miles, I do believe.’ 

Ulrica regarded the little dingy-faced woman with a sort 
of puzzled amusement. She did not know what to make 
of her. In theory she would have resented the intrusion, 
but somehow it was not possible to take Mrs. Byrd seri- 
ously enough to feel very indignant with anything she ever 
did. 

‘ I am afraid you have taken a great deal of trouble for 
no particular purpose,’ she remarked. 

‘ Oh, but I have a particular purpose,’ responded Mrs. 
Byrd, who had partially recovered her breath. ‘It was 
not only to make your acquaintance that I came ; I want 
you to promise to come and see me, and if you do, I am 
rewarded for all my trouble.’ 

‘ I really don’t see how that can be ; you don’t know 
me *at all, you know nothing about me.’ 

‘ I know that you are the mistress of Morton Hall,’ an- 
swered Mrs. Byrd, with a frankness which instinct told her 
would be her best policy in this case, ‘ and I see for myself 


286 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

now that you are — ’ She broke off and fixed her keen 
little eyes in a sort of astonished stare on Ulrica’s face. 

‘ That I am what ? ’ asked Ulrica, with a touch of impa- 
tience. But suddenly, Mrs. Byrd, starting up from the 
bank, on which she had scarcely sat down, seized both 
Ulrica’s hands. 

‘ My dear child, I cannot let you off, you must abso- 
lutely come ! ’ she cried, in a burst of enthusiasm. ‘ I was 
prepared for your being good-looking — oh yes, Madge 
Farnley had seen you from a distance and spread the re- 
port ; but this is a different thing altogether, I hadn’t got 
my breath back enough to look at you properly till this 
minute. My dear child, I hope you don’t mind my saying 
it, but do you know that there isn’t a professional beauty in 
London at this moment who could show herself beside you ? ’ 

Ulrica smiled indifferently. There was a blunt good- 
nature about the tone of the remark which tempered its 
impertinence. 

‘ You will come and stay a week at Collingwood, will 
you not ? ’ pursued Mrs. Byrd, in an insinuating but deter- 
mined voice. She was in the highest spirits. The idea of 
the heiress turning out to be a beauty as well! It doubled 
her value on the instant, at the same time that it fixed the 
lion hunter’s resolve to a deadly and immovable purpose. 

‘ But I have been nowhere — ’ 

‘So much the better; you will begin with me. You 
surely can’t intend to cloister yourself at Morton for the 
rest of your life, with no other amusement than wandering 
about this dismal swamp ? Why, it’s enough to drive one 
melancholy mad! Please say that you will come. I am 
arranging a party for going to the Dartlands* garden fete 
on the 2oth, and I have kept a place for you on purpose.’ 

‘ What is a garden fete ? I suppose there will be a lot 
of people there, and I don’t want to see people.’ 

‘ That is only your idea ; wait till you have tried. The 
appetite comes in eating, as the French say. If you don’t 
enjoy yourself, I promise never to invite you to anything 
again. So now, will you come ? ’ 

Ulrica stood uncertain. Perhaps there was something in 
what Mrs. Byrd said. Her life had been very empty 


THE ‘MARSH.’ 


287 

lately, her time hanging heavy on her hands, the luxury of 
idleness becoming almost oppressive. A few minutes ago, 
while she stood on the bank straining her eyes towards the 
sea, she had been wondering whether hard manual work 
were really the only means of killing thought and time; it 
was at any rate the only one she knew of. But now how 
would it be if she were to try this recipe of Mrs. Byrd’s ? 

‘ But I am in mourning,’ she said, hesitating, as she 
glanced down at her black dress. 

‘ Yes, for a fourth cousin fifteen times removed, or some- 
thing of that sort, and whom you probably never heard of 
until he was dead. As if six months’ black was not doing 
the thing handsomely, as it is ; and it’s over the six months, 
for it happened in December, and we are in August now. 
Surely you don’t mean to tell me that it’s your mourning 
that is at the bottom of your hermit-like propensities? 
Nobody ever breaks their hearts to that degree for cousins 
in that degree.’ 

‘ Of course not,’ said Ulrica, with a rather harsh laugh. 

* Well, I will come, if you like, but I haven’t the least idea 
what I am to do when I am there.’ 

Anything was better than running the risk of having her 
secret betrayed. It was annoying to think that the gos- 
sips of the neighbourhood were already on the lookout for 
the possible motive of her self-elected solitude. Ulrica 
began to tremble at the thought of their hitting upon the 
right one. She had been half inclined to say ‘ Yes ’ before, 
but it was the last remark, made quite at random by Mrs. 
Byrd, which had fixed her resolve. 

By the time the two ladies had left the bank and 
traversed the marsh back to where the carriages stood, it 
had been satisfactorily settled that Ulrica was to drive 
over to Collingwood next day on a week’s visit. 

‘ Now, even if the violinist does play me false,’ reflected 
Mrs. Byrd, as she turned her face homewards, ‘ I am richly 
provided for. Why, she is a host in herself. Nothing 
could fit in better ; the whole world will see her with my 
party at the Dartlands’ on the 20th, and the natural result 
will be a rush upon Collingwood. Oh no, I don’t a bit 
mind having sacrificed these boots.’ 

19 


288 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

THE FIRST STEP. 

The Dartlands’ garden-party, which came off punctually 
on August 20th, will be best described in the words of a 
young lady who chanced to be present, a certain Miss 
Kitty Milford, who does not appear in this story otherwise 
than as a spectator, but who was well known among her 
large acquaintance as possessing a ready pen, as well as 
what is generally called ‘ the gift of observation.’ In a let- 
ter dated August 21, and addressed to an intimate girl 
friend, this is what Miss Milford wrote : 

' Dearest Molly : I verily believe that I was the last 
person to leave town this year, just as I usually am the 
first to go there ; but here I am at last, fairly started on my 
autumn round, under my brother Hal’s charge, and dying 
to tell you of the last most killing thing in the way of en- 
tertainments that I have just undergone. You must know 
that this is what is called a quiet and old-fashioned neigh- 
bourhood (for which read dull and dowdy), and a dinner- 
party is talked of in a prophetic vein a fortnight before it 
comes off and in a retrospective one a fortnight after it has 
come off. As for a ball, I suppose they would have to 
begin to think of it two years in advance. But what I 
have to tell you of was neither a dinner nor a ball, it was 
a garden-party, the first that has occurred for the last fifteen 
years, as far as I understand. It was meant as a sort of 
inaugural festivity, I imagine, for the Dartlands, who gave 
the party, have only quite recently come into the title, on 
the death of an unmarried uncle. You never saw such a 
couple of dreary swells in all your life. He can be best 
described as a walking protest against flippancy, the sort 
of man who always sits down soberly in the middle of 
his chair, always wipes his feet carefully on the door-mat, 
and never by any chance uses a word not to be found in 
Johnson. You feel that it would be an unspeakable relief if 


THE FIRST STEP. 


289 


only he would put his legs on the table, or run his fingers 
through his hair, or do anything to break the monotony of 
his oppressively good behaviour. She, poor woman, seems 
not only to have swallowed the unavoidable poker, but also, 
to judge from the angle of insane hauteur 2X which she con- 
siders it necessary to hold her head, it has evidently disa- 
greed with her. Over both of them there yesterday lay a 
sort of tragic gloom ; their new honours seem to have terri- 
fied them so completely out of their wits that it was impos- 
sible for any one with a sensitive heart not to feel some 
human pity. As Hal observed, it was all he could do to 
refrain from patting the poor man on the back and saying 
encouragingly : “ Cheer up, old chap, you’re not nearly 
so big a swell as you fancy yourself ! ” 

‘ The tragic gloom, as tragic gloom has a way of doing, 
j spread from the persons of the host and hostess, till it in- 
j fected the whole concern. You could positively feel the 
I dulness in the air. Nobody had a notion what to do with 
themselves. There were some pretty fair tennis-courts, 
but everybody was too well-dressed to think of playing 
tennis ; and there were ices to eat, but people were all feel- 
ing so chilled to the heart by the atmosphere of semi-roy- 
alty which pervaded the entertainment, that I think hot 
negus or ginger wine would have had a better chance. 
One had a sort of feeling that if one attempted even the 
I smallest bit of flirtation, some master of the ceremonies 
I would start up at one’s elbow and politely point out that 
! such conduct was unfitted to the place. Somewhere about 
I five o’clock some one started a report that there were gold- 
fish to be seen in a pond on one of the terraces; you 
should have seen how we flocked towards that pond! It 
was quite touching to observe how even a hardened 
Londoner like myself can be reduced to a childish sim- 
plicity of mind under the pressure, of a great and awful 
dulness. 

' How, under ordinary circumstances, the afternoon 
would have been lived through, I cannot attempt to con- 
; jecture ; but just as we were returning from the pond, hav- 
ing completely exhausted the subject of the goldfish, the 
I great event of the day took place. ^ 


290 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

‘ I think I gave you a description of Mrs. Byrd when I 
wrote from here about this time last year, so I need not 
go into details now. Well, just as we had torn ourselves 
away from the goldfish, Mrs. Byrd was seen arriving, with 
all her newest celebrities collected around her, like a sort 
of flock of chickens. There was a man all in shades of 
brown, yellow-brown skin, muddy-brown hair, chocolate- 
brown coat — a French minister of some sort, 1 believe ; then 
there was Kulparow, the Russian tragedian, whom I saw as 
Hamlet this season, and who, by-the-bye, doesn’t look half so 
tragical in real life as Lord Dartland was looking yesterday ; 
there was also some lesser lion, who either plays the violin 
or sails balloons or is the only survivor of a shipwreck, or 
at any rate has got himself talked about somehow or 
other ; a member of some foreign nation, I presume, since 
he took away everybody’s breath by appearing in dress- 
clothes — no, I am not joking, it’s a naked fact ; then 
there were a couple of other ordinary mortals, including Mr. 
Byrd, who belongs to the passive order of husbands, and 
then there was : 

The Great Austrian Savage 

NEWLY BROUGHT TO THIS COUNTRY. 

TO BE SEEN AT THIS ESTABLISHMENT ONLY. 

* I am certain that is the way Mrs. Byrd would like to 
placard her newest acquisition, if she could have it all her 
own way. To make the placard “ draw ” better still, they 
should certainly be accompanied by a portrait, for, oh my 
dear, she is simply beautiful! That sort of clear, warm 
complexion which is like the skin of a peach, and eyes 
which surprise you by being grey instead of black when 
you see her close ; and her figure simply perfect. When 
I tell you that though we were all in our best frocks and 
though she wasn’t dressed a bit properly for the occasion 
— a plain walking-dress pitch-forked right into the middle of 
muslins and laces and furbelows — and yet that she simply 
blotted us all out, you will be able to appreciate what I 
say. What she would be like if she were rigged out as 
she ought to be is almost rather bewildering to contem- 


THE FIRST STEP. 


291 


plate. Goodness, what a fuss they’ll make about her if she 
goes to London next season! From the moment that she 
appeared on the scene the spell of dreariness seemed 
broken. Already the sight of the foreign lion’s dress-coat 
had immensely raised our drooping spirits, but the dress- 
coat and the minister and the tragedian all vanished into 
thin air beside the heiress. (She’s the girl, you know, who 
has suddenly come into a whole heap of money on the 
death of poor Sir Gilbert Nevyll, who was burnt to death in 
the Vienna theatre last year.) Nobody had seen her till then, 
and I fancy it must have been the proudest moment of 
Mrs. Byrd’s life when she sailed up the path with this Aus- 
trian in tow. Of course she had come late on purpose to 
enhance the eifect. And certainly one oughtn’t to grudge 
the poor woman her triumphs, she works hard enough for 
them, in all conscience. People say that she is studying 
both Spanish and Turkish at present, as she has her eye 
upon a pensioned-off matadore and a disgraced Pasha for 
next winter ; this, together with the amount of poetry she 
is obliged to read up and the new music she practices in 
order to be armed to meet the poets and composers who 
come to Collingwood, must keep her time pretty well oc- 
cupied. But to return to the heiress. She completely 
swayed the situation. Whether her money alone would 
have produced this effect, or her good looks alone, I don’t 
know, but certainly the two things together worked pro- 
digiously. People who had managed to get introduced to 
her looked down with infinite contempt on people who 
had not. People who didn’t know who she was were 
patronisingly informed by others as to the facts of the 
case. Every one of her movements was watched, and 
rather good fun it was, too. I don’t suppose she had ever 
been at a garden-party before ; not that she was shy or 
awkward or looked alarmed, but everything seemed to 
astonish her so much. I overheard her asking Madge 
Farnley why those fishmg-Jiets were put up on the lawn, and 
once or twice she walked straight up to people whom she 
didn’t know from Adam in order to ask some question or 
other, much of the same nature. But of course if you 
have eighty thousand a year it doesn’t matter what you 


292 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


do. I fancy that after she came the men enjoyed them- 
selves on the whole better than the ladies did. For one 
thing, the conversation became painfully one-sided. You 
know of old that I have long ears on these occasions, and 
the scraps I picked up were sometimes rather interesting. 
“ So that is the new mistress of Morton Hall ? ” some one 
said behind me in a meditative tone. “ What an enviable 
man her husband will be! ” It was a big, slightly ponder- 
ous man with a black moustache who made this remark, 
as I ascertained by squinting over my shoulder ; I fancy 
I’ve seen him about town this last season. “ Because of 
her face or because of her fortune 1 ” asked his neighbour 
quizzically. There was no time for an answer, for just at 
that moment a sort of half-smothered shriek was heard, and 
Mrs. Byrd burst through the group and pounced upon the 
man with the black moustache. “You faithless creat- 
ure!” she cried melodramatically. “What has become 
of your promises ? How dare you show yourself in this 
part of the country without coming near Collingwood ? ” 
Some civil speeches followed ; the big man explained that 
he had been able to get away sooner than he had calcu- 
lated, etc., etc., and that since September had been fixed 
for his visit to Collingwood, and since Mrs. Tanner of 
Bromley had been particularly pressing in her reminders, 
etc. At this Mrs. Byrd glanced with a searching look to- 
wards where Mrs. Tanner was standing, almost as though 
she half suspected that lady of attempting to set up a rival 
establishment of lions. Then after a little more thrusting 
and parrying, the “ faithless creature ” was forgiven. 
“And now come and be introduced to my heiress,” Mrs. 
Byrd wound up, relentingly. The proposal seemed exactly 
to meet the big man’s wishes, for it was followed with 
alacrity, and after that he seemed to stick pretty close for 
the rest of the afternoon, as, to be sure, others did as well 
as he. I wonder what it feels like to be as rich and as 
lovely as that? Unless she is made of wood or of stone, 
it must have gone to her head just a little bit. I feel as if 
I could write pages on the subject, but as my candles 
evidently do not feel that they can bum on for hours 
more, I must hmriedly betake myself from my blotting- 


THE FIRST STEP. 


293 


book to my bed. And so good-bye, till I have another 
experience to report upon. 

‘ Yours ever, 

'Kitty Milford.’ 

On the same day that this letter was posted Ulrica wrote 
one to the landlady of the ' Golden Sun ’ at Glockenau, re- 
questing her to pack up and forward to her all the per- 
sonal belongings which she had left at the Marienhof, as 
she was not thinking of returning for the present. It was 
from Morton that she wrote, for Mrs. Byrd, despite her de- 
termination, had not been able to keep the heiress longer. 
The truth was that Ulrica was excited and restless ; she 
felt the desire to be alone, and to try to analyse the new 
sensations which the last few days, and more especially the 
day of the garden-party, had awakened in her. At least 
she had believed that what she wanted was solitude, but to 
her surprise, once having got it, she did not relish it as 
she had expected. After the gay party at Collingwood 
Morton seemed strangely big and lonely, and after the ad- 
miration she had read in so many eyes on the day of her 
first real step into the world, it chilled her to be met only 
by the respectfully stony gaze of paid domestics. She 
had taken her first sip of that cup the delights of which so 
very few women are able to resist, and already the poison 
was at work in her veins, for Ulrica was not made either 
of wood or of stone. She felt that she wanted more of 
what she had had ; more admiration, more of that intoxi- 
cating astonishment which had stood written on so many 
of the faces turned towards her ; and why should she not 
have it, too ? Why should she spend her days in mourning 
for a man who had deceived her ? It was all false and 
hollow, she knew that well enough ; there could be no truth 
in the world since even her cousin Gilbert had been false, 
but was that a reason for not enjoying the good things 
which this hollow world was able to offer? In the new 
recklessness which had taken possession of her, Ulrica de- 
cided that it was no reason whatever. 

To spend the day thus alone was not possible ; she felt 
she must speak to somebody about this her latest ex- 


294 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

perience, and in default of any other hearer, Ulrica de- 
cided to walk over to the Old Hall and give Charlotte a 
description of the garden-party. Even Charlotte was 
better than nobody at all. 

Charlotte was as much surprised at Ulrica’s visit as at 
her manner ; she had never heard her talk in so animated, 
almost excited a strain. 

‘ I suppose you must have met almost all our neigh- 
bours,’ said Charlotte, endeavouring to show some civil 
interest, for, truth to say, the conversation bored her con- 
siderably. Just before Ulrica came in she had been busied 
in making a calculation as to how many days would prob- 
ably have to elapse before Basil might be expected to turn 
up again in the neighbourhood, for was not September 
now fast approaching ? 

‘ I suppose they were neighbours, but it was so confus- 
ing, I scarcely heard any names. But whether they were 
neighbours or not, they were all wonderfully amiable, much 
more amiable than anybody has ever been to me in my life 
before.’ 

^ Oh, well, it is to be expected that you should attract 
attention now,’ said Charlotte, in the tone of a grudging 
admission. ‘ You will be what people call a parti.' 

‘ What does that mean ? ’ 

‘ That means,’ said Charlotte, with a smile that was al- 
most insolent, ‘ that whoever marries you will think he has 
won a great prize. Have you not yet found out what an 
influence money has upon men ? ’ 

‘ How she says that ! ’ thought Ulrica, her eyes fixed in 
silent anger on Charlotte’s face ; ‘ just as though she her- 
self had not married Gilbert for money alone, and thus 
wrecked his life and mine ! ’ 

The conversation was taking place out-of-doors, for the 
afternoon was still and warm, and it was in a basket chair 
on the lawn that Ulrica had found Charlotte installed. 
From where they sat nothing but a comer of the Old Hall 
was visible, close at hand yet veiled by the intervening 
trees. 

' What is it ? Why are you looking at me so ? ’ asked 
Charlotte, distmbed by Ulrica’s gaze and her silence. 


THE FIRST STEP. 


295 


* Nothing. I was thinking that very likely you are 
right about money and men ; I had one to hold my cup 
and another to hold my parasol, and I daresay I might 
have had another for my saucer and another for my tea- 
spoon as well.’ 

‘ Young men are so foolish,’ drawled Charlotte, languidly. 

‘ Oh, it wasn’t the young men alone,’ said Ulrica, with a 
reckless laugh ; ‘ there was one quite dignified looking gen- 
tleman, not at all so very young, who was almost the most 
eager among my serving-knights. He not only held both 
my cup and saucer for me, but he explained to me all 
about that game that you play with the nets on the grass, 
and when I said I should like to try it, he gave me a les- 
son, and we two had a game all alone, though nobody else 
was playing.’ 

‘ And who was this middle-aged Adonis who made him- 
self so conspicuous f ’ 

‘ Oh, I haven’t an idea, I told you that I didn’t remem- 
ber any names. Are those not wheels on the gravel? 
Are you expecting any visitors ? ’ 

‘ No, I am expecting no one — yet,’ said Charlotte, turn- 
ing her head, nevertheless, in the direction of the house. 
The next minute a gentleman appeared from among the 
trees and crossed the lawn towards the encampment on 
the grass. 

‘ So my ears have not deceived me,’ was his greeting as he 
approached. ‘ I thought I heard voices in this direction.’ 

Charlotte had risen hastily from her chair, her eyes all 
delight, a sudden flush upon her face. She made a step 
towards her visitor. 

‘Welcome back!’ she said, with hand outstretched. 
‘ This is sooner even than I had looked for.’ 

He took the hand, but glanced past her towards the 
second lady present. Charlotte felt herself recalled to her 
duties of hostess. 

‘ This is Countess Eldringen, my cousin,’ she said, turn- 
ing. ‘Allow me to introduce Mr. Rockingham.’ It was 
with a certain triumphant ring in her voice that she pro- 
nounced the name ; the tone distinctly betrayed the pride 
of possession. 


296 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

‘ I have had that pleasure already/ responded Mr. 
Rockingham, with a smile that was even more suave than 
usual. 

‘ Already ? ’ repeated Charlotte, looking from one to the 
other in blank surprise. ‘ When did you — ’ 

‘ We met at Lord Dartland’s garden-party — and oh, by- 
the-bye, Countess, I hope you did not feel very stiff after 
your first tennis-lesson ? It was rather hard work in that 
sun.’ 

‘ Hard work ? ’ said Ulrica, with a laugh. ^ Is that your 
idea of hard work ? It is not what I have been accus- 
tomed to call hard work. How funny that we should just 
have been talking about it before you appeared.’ 

But Charlotte was no longer listening. With hands 
tightly clasped together, she stood by and stared incredu- 
lously, yet with a growing terror in her eyes, at Basil stand- 
ing by Ulrica’s side and talking to Ulrica. In one single 
instant she seemed to read what the future must bring, 
must inevitably bring. It was no presentiment that came 
to her aid, her vision was sharpened only by her intimate 
knowledge of the material with which she had to deal. 
What Basil wanted was not so much a wife as an ambassa- 
dress. He was susceptible to female loveliness, and 
Ulrica was beautiful, far, far more beautiful than Charlotte 
had ever been ; he could never have enough of riches, and 
Ulrica was rich, ten and twenty times richer than Charlotte. 
Oh yes, she saw it all quite clearly now. What had she 
been about, in Heaven’s name, what had she been about 
not to foresee that this must come 1 Why had she not 
taken her precautions while there was yet time ? Why had 
she not so arranged matters that the meeting should take 
place in London, in Bournemouth, anywhere but here ? 

It was a short agony that Charlotte lived through, while 
she stood by with thin lips compressed and hands tightly 
clasped, while beside her Ulrica and Mr. Rockingham were 
exchanging their impressions of the great garden-party. 

Fool, fool that she had been not to have flown from this 
danger! 


THE widow’s cap. 


297 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

THE Widow’s cap. 

Once more Mr. Rockingham was standing on the hearth- 
rug of his bedroom at Collingwood, his feet well apart, his 
back to the fire, as, with bent head and eyebrows con- 
tracted, he communed confidentially with his slippers. Al- 
most a month had passed since the Dartland garden-party, 
and the damp September weather made a fire very grate- 
ful to the ex-Minister, whom long residence in foreign 
countries had rendered chilly. His face bore an expres- 
sion which was triumphant and yet a trifle disturbed. 

To Mrs. Byrd’s deep regret, Mr. Rockingham was leav- 
ing Collingwood next day. On the table there lay an open 
telegram in which he was informed that his appointment 
to the post towards which he had been working his way 
during the last year had just taken place. He must be in 
London next day, and within a week he would probably 
have sailed from England. His first idea had been to start 
by the morning train, but a little reflection had decided him 
in favour of the night mail ; he would thus gain the after- 
noon for some purposes of his own. 

According to the programme he had made in spring, 
this would have been the moment to hurry up matters with 
Charlotte, but it was not of Charlotte that he was thinking 
as he stood on the hearthrug and reviewed the situation. 

‘There can be no doubt,’ he remarked to his slippers, 
‘that there is ever so much more in this idea than there 
ever was in the other. Good Lord! what eyes she has 
got! I saw nothing to come near them either in Greece 
or Spain.’ And for a moment he fell into something that 
might almost have been called a reverie. 

Presently, with an impatient shake, he raised his head. 

‘ Eyes, indeed. If she had no more solid advantages 
than her eyes, poor Chatty might yet have been happy. 
Let’s come to business, Mr. Rockingham. But I must be 
cautious ; too much haste might spoil everything. All that 


298 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

can be done for the present will be to part on the amiable 
and unobtrusive terms of master and pupil, to shake hands 
over the tennis-net, figuratively speaking. Then, if she can 
only be brought to London in spring, brought to London 
heart-whole, my way will be pretty clear. Among the 
host of strange faces mine will appear almost like that of 
an old friend. Yes, it must certainly be London, if only 
for the sake of being out of Charlotte’s way. AT/, what say 
you. Monsieur le diplomate, is not that neatly planned % ’ 
and Mr. Rockingham dug his hands still deeper into his 
pockets, drew his shoulders up to his ears, and smiled radi- 
antly at his slippers. 

In accordance with this newly revised programme he 
drove over to Morton early on the following afternoon, 
having left orders for his portmanteau to be packed. The 
Old Hall had to be visited first ; he could not well avoid 
taking leave of Charlotte, and, in fact, it was only under 
cover of the Old Hall that the New Hall could be vent- 
ured on at all. 

Charlotte was at home, occupied in reading a society 
paper. She folded it up hastily and pushed it aside as he 
entered. In the column of fashionable gossip she had just 
been annoyed by the discovery of a paragraph which con- 
fided to the world at large that there were very good 
grounds for believing that the widow of a certain unfortu- 
nate baronet who had perished last year in a most tragical 
manner would shortly unite her lot with that of ‘ one of our 
most able diplomats.’ 

Mr. Rockingham’s return to the neighbourhood, coupled 
with his calls at Morton in spring, had evidently appeared 
conclusive to the gossip-collectors of the Spy. Six months 
ago the paragraph would have thrilled Charlotte with de- 
light ; just now it seemed only to accentuate her defeat. 
And yet, by the way she changed colour when told of the 
object of his visit, Basil could see that even now hope was 
not quite dead within her. The perception of this fact 
moved him to curtail to a minimum the length of his call, 
for cruelty did not lie in his nature. 

When he rose to go she rose as well, and stood for a 
moment undecided before she put out her hand. 


THE widow’s cap. 


299 

‘You are going to the New Hall nowT she asked 
quickly and suspiciously. 

‘ Yes. Have you any message ? ’ 

‘ I have no message, but I — I was thinking of going over 
this afternoon,’ stammered Charlotte, ‘ and perhaps you 
wouldn’t mind my driving over with you, as I haven’t given 
orders yet about the carriage ? ’ 

Mr. Rockingham, with all his diplomacy, could do no- 
thing but bow acquiescence. 

To Charlotte this was a respite. At least she would be 
able to assure herself with her own eyes of the exact sort 
of parting that took place between Basil and Ulrica. 

Certainly it would be infinitely more convenient to meet 
Ulrica in London, reflected Mr. Rockingham as he fol- 
lowed Lady Nevyll down the staircase ; it also would be 
kinder to Charlotte, for whom he really and truly felt very 
sorry. ‘ She has no luck, poor thing,’ he said to himself 
quite compassionately. 

By an odd coincidence Ulrica’s attention also had been 
on this same day arrested by the same paragraph which 
had so much annoyed Charlotte ; for, amongst other ac- 
complishments, she had already acquired that of filling up 
her too ample leisure with the perusal of society papers. 
Even to her inexperience the ‘widow of the unfortunate 
baronet ’ was immediately recognised as Charlotte, but it 
had not yet occurred to her to identify the ‘ able diplomat ’ 
with her new acquaintance who had been so obliging about 
the tennis, but to whom she had only spoken four times in 
all. 

To Ulrica the paragraph had brought an increase of in- 
dignation against Gilbert’s widow. What! Her cousin 
had not been dead a year, and already the name of his 
successor was in the mouths of the gossips. Not content 
with not having loved him, she was going to flaunt this fact 
in the face of the world. 

It was with an even less friendly mien than usual that 
she rose from her place on hearing Lady Nevyll an- 
nounced. 

‘ So my tennis-lessons are at an end for the present,’ was 
the remark she made when Mr. Rockingham had an- 


300 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


nounced his impending departure. Though Charlotte 
watched carefully for any sign of emotion, she grew none 
the wiser from the expression on Ulrica’s face. Ulrica, in 
point of fact, was not thinking of Mr. Rockingham at all, 
but of that unknown ‘ able diplomat,’ who as yet was but 
an abstraction to her. 

‘ They will be superseded, I presume, by dancing-lessons,’ 
Mr. Rockingham hastened to say. 

' Dancing ? What for ? Somebody told me that the 
last ball in this neighbourhood took place exactly five 
years ago.’ 

Mr. Rockingham gently shrugged his shoulders. ‘No 
doubt ; but who is talking of this neighbourhood ? I take 
for granted that London will be our next meeting ground.’ 

‘ Oh, but Countess Eldringen is not thinking of going to 
London,’ quickly interpolated Charlotte. ‘ She is not used 
to seeing so many people.’ Already she had pierced the 
motive of Basil’s remark, and had guessed at the pro- 
gramme sketched out on the hearthrug last night. 

‘ There is no reason why I should not get used to seeing 
people,’ Ulrica impatiently retorted, merely for the pleas- 
ure of contradicting Charlotte. 

‘ Ah, that sounds a little better,’ agreed Mr. Rocking- 
ham approvingly. ‘ If only I had my six weeks’ leave in 
my pocket I should feel emboldened to petition for the first 
waltz at the first ball at which we meet.’ 

‘ A London season is terribly fatiguing,’ persisted Char- 
lotte, with feverish eagerness. 

‘ It would take a good deal to fatigue me,’ laughed LH- 
rica, somewhat surprised at the evident anxiety in Char- 
lotte’s tone. 

Charlotte turned to Mr. Rockingham. 

‘ But is it dignified for an ambassador to waltz ? ’ she 
asked, with an effort at playfulness which, owing to the un- 
steadiness of her voice, was a lamentable failure. 

‘ Under so great a temptation even an ambassador must 
succumb,’ responded Mr. Rockingham, with a slightly 
pompous bow in Ulrica’s direction. 

The colour left Charlotte’s face. A feeling of utter 
helplessness came over her; try as she would she could 


THE WIDOW’S CAP. 


301 


not stem the current of events. ‘ O Basil,’ she murmured 
under the pressure of her excitement. She was not aware 
that she had said it, but Ulrica, who sat close by, heard the 
words and looked up just in time to see the reproachful 
gaze which Charlotte turned on her faithless lover. There 
was no possibility of misinterpreting that look. Suddenly 
an idea struck Ulrica : Mr. Rockingham was an ambassa- 
dor, and ambassadors are diplomats — even Ulrica knew 
that. She took another look at Charlotte’s face and she 
began to understand. This, then, was the man of whom 
the widow had been thinking as she decked herself with the 
lace cap and the lilac ribbons. Involuntarily her teeth 
closed more tightly, and about her beautiful mouth there 
appeared hard, cruel lines. 

‘ I suppose it will end by my going to London,’ she re- 
marked, after a moment, deliberately ; ‘ there seems to be 
no escape for me, at least everybody tells me so, so you 
can make a note of that waltz, if you don’t mind playing 
the dancing-master as well as the tennis-master.’ 

Five minutes after she had said it she had forgotten her 
own words ; but into Charlotte’s mind the careless phrase 
had sunk straight and deep, like a weight of lead. 

‘ It was only to be expected, it cannot be otherwise,’ she 
sobbed to herself that evening in the room. ‘ He is twenty 
years and more older than she is, of course, but then his 
looks are so perfectly preserved.’ 

There existed no doubt whatever in Charlotte’s mind 
that Basil had already made an impression on the heiress ; 
she found it unavoidable that it should be so, considering 
how irresistible Basil was, but it only made her own posi- 
tion more hopeless. 

It was only a few days later that Charlotte came very 
near to making a discovery which would have shown her 
in one instant how false her surmise was. 

Ulrica had been informed that Lady Nevyll was con- 
fined to her room with a headache, and partly because she 
had nothing else to do, partly, also, moved by some im- 
pulse of pity, she had walked over to the Old Hall. Char- 
lotte was lying motionless on a sofa in her bedroom. She 
was scarcely to be recognised as the same woman who had 


302 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

astonished Mr. Rockingham so much on the occasion of 
the meeting on the church steps ; that brief period of glory 
was over; she had collapsed again into her former self. 
Even her dress betrayed the reaction, and already the slov- 
enliness and indifference were beginning to creep into the 
very twist of the bows on her cashmere dressing-gown. 

‘ I wonder you can breathe in this room,’ said Ulrica in 
a not particularly sympathetic tone ; ‘ why, it’s almost like 
being inside an eau-de-Cologne bottle. Positively you 
must let me open at least one window-pane.’ Without 
waiting for Charlotte’s murmur of resigned acquiescence 
she went to the window and opened it. Passing by the 
toilet-table she stood still, her attention arrested by an ob- 
ject which lay there. 

‘You have quite given up wearing this, have you not?’ 
she asked in a hard, dry voice, holding up something white 
as she spoke. 

‘Wearing what? My cap? Oh yes, long ago. I was 
sorting out some useless things this morning when my head 
got so bad, that is why there is such a litter on the table 
there.’ 

Ulrica’s fingers trembled a little as she held the dis- 
carded widow’s cap in her hands. Very often during the 
earliest days of her stay in England she had looked at that 
cap with envious eyes as it crowned Charlotte’s pale gol- 
den hair. Often, very often, had she felt the wild desire 
to tear it from her rival’s head, as one queen might seek to 
uncrown another queen, and to call out to her in disdain : 

^Mine is the right to wear it, for it is I who am his right- 
ful widow and not you.’ 

‘ I wonder how it would suit me ? ’ she said aloud, with 
a little catch in her voice which might possibly have been 
meant for a laugh. 

‘ It suits nobody,’ said Charlotte querulously. 

Ulrica did not answer; with the widow’s cap on her 
head she was bending forward and drinking in her own 
image in the glass. 

Oh, for the right to wear it in the eyes of the world! 
For a full minute she gazed, then reluctantly put up her 
hand to remove it ; but just then her eye fell on an open 


THE widow’s cap. 


303 


trinket-case which stood on the table amongst a heap of 
black crapes and laces. In the upper tray, embedded in 
blue velvet, lay a small oval miniature in ivory, set in a 
narrow gold rim. Ulrica remained standing motionless, 
her eyes fixed on the exquisitely executed painting. It 
was the portrait of a child, of a boy not more than fifteen 
years of age, but Ulrica had seen those eyes in the face of 
a man — she could not be mistaken. Was this also one of 
the ‘ useless things ’ about to be discarded ? 

‘ Who is it ? ’ she asked in a breathless whisper. ‘ This 
miniature, who is it ? ’ 

‘Oh, that? It is a portrait of my husband. He gave 
it me when we were engaged to be married.’ 

‘ It is very like him,’ Ulrica said quickly, the tears start- 
ing suddenly to her eyes. Amongst all the pictures she 
had seen of him none had so vividly brought back to her 
memory Gilbert’s glance and Gilbert’s smile as this boyish 
likeness executed by a master-hand. 

‘ Did you know him ? ’ asked Charlotte in languid sur- 
prise. 

Ulrica had repented of her words almost before they 
were spoken. Hitherto she had succeeded in concealing 
the fact of her acquaintance with Gilbert. 

‘ I met him once in Austria,’ she said quietly, though 
her heart was beating with unbearable haste. ‘It was 
when he had come abroad to shoot chamois, I think.’ 

‘ Really ? I don’t think you ever mentioned the fact 
before.’ Charlotte spoke without any interest. She had 
never taken any interest in her husband’s acquaintances, 
and there was nothing astonishing whatever in his having 
come across Ulrica in Austria. 

‘He was very fond of chamois-shooting, was he not?’ 
said Ulrica, by way of saying something. 

‘ I believe so ; at any rate it was as good an excuse as 
any other for getting away from England.’ 

It was during these minutes that Ulrica’s secret trembled 
in the balance. Though by a supreme effort of self-con- 
trol she had succeeded in steadying her voice, she was not 
able to control her rising colour, nor could the whole strength 
of her stubborn pride crush down the tears that had started 
20 


304 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


to her eyes. If Charlotte, instead of holding her hand 
over her aching eyelids, had but chanced to glance up as 
she made the remark, she could not have failed — being a 
woman — to read in Ulrica’s face as in an open book. By 
the trembling of her lips, by the two bright drops that were 
stealing over her burning cheeks, even by the nervous gest- 
ure with which' she put up her hand to pull off the widow’s 
cap, Ulrica would have stood confessed under Charlotte’s 
glance. One casual lifting of the eyes, it wanted but that 
to chase from the elder woman’s mind the false belief which 
had taken possession of it, and to put her on the track of 
a discovery which would, without doubt, have lightened the 
greater half of her anxieties. On such a slender thread 
as this does the crisis of a life sometimes hang. 

As winter first approached and then advanced, Ulrica 
and Charlotte saw less and less of each other, for Charlotte 
shut herself once more up in the Old Hall, and Ulrica sel- 
dom spent more than a week at a time at Morton. So 
heavily did solitude begin to weigh that she accepted every 
neighborly invitation which reached her. To her inexpe- 
rience even the dullest and most pompous dinner-party 
was full of unexplored wonders. 

By this time it was a settled point that she was going to 
London in spring. It had been nothing but a spirit of 
contradiction that had first moved her to consider the ques- 
tion, but by degrees she had got interested in the idea and 
now looked forward to the dawm of the season with a sort 
of uneasy impatience. Mrs. Byrd was more impatient still, 
for by judiciously playing her cards she had succeeded in 
securing for herself the comfortable berth of Ulrica’s chap- 
eron. The idea of being ‘ chaperoned ’ by this little stumpy 
woman, or indeed by any one in the world, struck Ulrica 
as being in grimly humourous contrast to her former experi- 
ences ; but a guide of some sort would doubtless be useful 
in the unknown world she was about to enter. 

There was one other person besides Charlotte who disap- 
proved of the London plan, and that one was Mr. Bolt, the 
old farmer-engineer who superintended the works on the 
‘ marsh.’ With Ulrica’s departure he would lose the one 
sympathetic listener he had ever had, for neither Sir Gil- 


THE WIDOW’S CAP. 


305 


bert nor Sir Gilbert’s father, under whom he had held a 
contract, had ever shown much interest in the works. 
Once started upon his solitary theme, he could talk by the 
hour. By dint of studying this one spot of earth during 
forty years, under every aspect, at every hour and in all 
weathers, he had come to discover beauties about it which 
to another eye would have been invisible. His whole 
heart was wrapped up in this 'marsh,’ it clung around 
every spray of samphire and every tuft of sea-pink that 
bloomed on the wide surface, and it lay buried in every 
pool of salt water that glistened between the clumps of 
bent grass. 

‘ But if you are going to London, miss, you won’t be 
here for the closing of the bank,’ was the remark he made, 
with a face of almost comical consternation, when one day 
late in March Ulrica had announced her impending de- 
parture. ‘ I had counted for certain on your being here.’ 

‘ Yes, to be sure. I had forgotten about the bank,’ said 
Ulrica. ‘ When do you think you will close it ? ’ 

‘Last neap-tide in June, as near as I can say. It will 
take us quite the week to be ready for the spring tide, and 
unless it finds all the fourteen openings shut up we are 
done for. This one here will be one of our hardest tussles ; ’ 
and the engineer, who was standing beside Ulrica on one of 
the sections of the bank, indicated the gap which extended 
to within a few paces of the spot. ‘ The narrower the gap, 
the deeper the gutter, that’s the general rule.’ 

What Mr. Bolt designated by the unpoetical name of 
‘ gutter ’ was in reality the flood hollow or natural channel 
worn out by the rush of the waves between the two sec- 
tions of bank. At this moment the tide was in retreat, and 
the expanse of sands which stretched seawards was bare 
and glistening, but in the deep scoop of the flood hollow, 
which ran to more than a hundred yards outside the line 
of the bank, the water stood to a depth of eight or ten 
feet. It was a miniature green lake on which Ulrica 
looked down, and as on the edge of a lake a couple of big, 
clumsy fishing-boats reposed, ready to float again with the 
turn of the tide. 

‘The job will cost me seven sleepless nights,’ said Mr. 


3o6 a queen of curds and cream. 

Bolt, with a sigh. ‘ And to think, miss, that you won’t see 
the last spadeful put on, after all ! ’ 

‘Well,’ laughed Ulrica, as she turned to descend the 
bank, ‘the last spadeful is not put on yet. There is no 
saying whether I may not be tired of London by June. In 
any case be sure you let me know when the date is finally 
fixed.’ 

‘ I shall do that without fail,’ said Mr. Bolt, his weather- 
beaten old face lighting up at the hope held out, even 
though it was but a faint one. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

THE EDGE OF THE WHIRLPOOL. 

Everybody knows that London is a very ugly place. It 
would be absurd to deny that of all the capitals of Europe 
it is the grimiest, sootiest, smokiest conglomeration of 
bricks and mortar on which the sun shines, or far more 
often does not shine. All the more praiseworthy, therefore, 
is the achievement by which London annually succeeds 
in becoming almost beautiful during three whole months. 
Other towns rely upon their climate or their situation, upon 
their architecture or the magnificence of their streets, and 
disdain all minor attempts at beautification, but London, 
knowing well that it has none of these things to boast of, 
strains every nerve to welcome its guests with a smiling 
face. Possibly this is the secret of that dazzling, if short- 
lived, brilliancy which once a year manages to put even 
Paris and Vienna in the shade. Granted that London, 
even on a bright winter’s day, is considerably drearier than 
Vienna on a dull one ; but when those ugly brick fronts 
bloom out suddenly with crocuses and hyacinths, when the 
wonderful English grass flashes into emerald in the parks, 
when the horsemen and women begin to gather in the Row, 
and visions of dainty loveliness are to be caught by the 
passers-by through the panes of every carriage window. 


THE EDGE OF THE WHIRLPOOL. 


307 


when everybody is in their best clothes and their best spir- 
its (as people always are who are determined to enjoy 
themselves), every horse groomed, every hat brushed, and 
every bit of brass or plate burnished to the pitch of perfec- 
tion — in one word, when every available pound, shilling, or 
penny scraped together during the rest of the year has been 
dragged to London by its owner for the sole purpose of 
being spent, then who would exchange our capital for any 
other in the world ? 

Ulrica had been more than a fortnight in town without 
being able to recover from her bewilderment. Why, Vi- 
enna was nothing to this; beside Hyde Park the Pratc7' 
was a desert, and compared to the din of Regent Street an 
idyllic peace might be said to reign on the Rmg Strasse. 
After the deep repose of Glockenau, followed by the 
scarcely less deep solitude of Morton, the plunge into this 
seething centre of life was all the more amazing. On the 
day after her arrival she had surprised Mrs. Byrd by spring- 
ing up and going to the window every time that wheels 
were heard rolling down the street, under the vague im- 
pression that every carriage meant a visitor. She very 
soon gave it up, having come to the conclusion that in or- 
der to control the movements of every vehicle that passed 
the door she would require to spend the entire day at the 
window. 

This fortnight had been devoted chiefly to shopping, con- 
sultations with dressmakers, and a certain amount of dining 
out. London was at its very best, not yet full, but filling 
rapidly ; it was the moment when leaves have not yet had 
time to get grimy, and hopes have not yet had time to get 
dashed. Ulrica had been to the theatre, she had driven in 
the Park, and she had made what appeared to her a count- 
less number of new acquaintances, though Mrs. Byrd de- 
clared that as yet she knew 'simply nobody.’ And in a 
certain sense Mrs. B)Td was right. Though Ulrica had 
gone through several dozen introductions, she still, from a 
fashionable point of view, knew nobody, and more emphat- 
ically still, she was not known. A good many glasses had 
been directed towards the box in which she sat, and a good 
many heads had been turned in the Row to gaze after this 


3o8 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


new beauty, and already the report of her beauty and of her 
wealth was beginning to spread from circle to circle ; but 
as yet London at large had not discovered her, for London 
is too vast and too opaque to be pierced in one instant by 
the radiance of any single star, however bright. 

‘ You have seen nothing yet,’ said Mrs. Byrd to the won- 
dering Ulrica, ‘ and you have not been seen. It requires 
a big ball to make a start.’ 

^You don’t mean to say that you are giddy already,’ re- 
marked her neighbour at dinner one evening towards the end 
of her first fortnight in London. ' This is only the edge 
of the whirlpool ; wait till you are whisked into the middle.’ 

It was a more than elderly Marquis who made this re- 
mark. Ulrica had met him for the first time that evening, 
and before dinner was half over had decided that Lord 
Cannington was by far the most amusing of all the acquaint- 
ances she had made since she had come to town. With 
his dried-up features, bushy eyebrows surmounting a pair 
of restlessly moving eyes, pointed grey moustache, and 
grimly saturnine smile, he was not at all unlike an exceed- 
ingly gentlemanlike, somewhat dignified elderly devil ; and 
his conversation rather deepened this impression than de- 
tracted from it. 

‘ Your first season, I am told,’ was the remark with which 
he opened conversation in a dry, abrupt voice. ‘ Humph, 
I’ve heard of you already.’ 

' From whom ? ’ asked Ulrica, in some surprise. 

‘ From whom ? From whom ? ’ repeated Lord Canning- 
ton, with a touch of testiness. ‘ How do I know from 
whom? Those sort of things lie in the air, one inhales 
them along with the soot and the scent of the roast truffles. 
You don’t suppose, do you, that an heiress of your — what 
shall I call it ? — calibre — appears in London every season ? 
And with your looks into the bargain. I’m old enough to 
be your grandfather, so there’s no harm in plain English. 
You mayn’t know it, but you’re a phenomenon. Where 
have you been to as yet ? ’ 

‘ Mrs. Byrd says I have been nowhere,’ answered Ulrica, 
who was beginning to feel entertained, ‘ but I am going to 
my first ball to-morrow.’ 


THE EDGE OF THE WHIRLPOOL. 


309 


‘ Humph, white gown, snowdrops, and all the rest of it, 
I suppose ; I know the style of thing — one of the troop of 
dove-like debuta7ites; can’t say bo to a goose — in public, 
that’s to say ; as to what they say to the geese in private, 
of course I have no means of judging, but I fancy it’s a 
good deal more than bo.^ 

‘You are either very rude or a very stem moralist; I 
can’t quite make out which,’ said Ulrica, laughing. 

Her new acquaintance looked at her for a moment out 
of the comers of his eyes. 

‘ My fair young friend,’ he presently observed, ‘ I be- 
lieve that I started in life endowed with — or, more cor- 
rectly speaking, hampered by — a fair portion of what some 
people are pleased to call moral sense, and not entirely 
I free from what other people like to call feelings, but I’ve 
j lived for sixty-five years, — in London, mostly, — and both 
1 those appendages are worn pretty threadbare by this time, 
thank Heaven.’ 

‘ Why thank Heaven ? ’ asked Ulrica, rather startled. 

‘ Do you want to have a good time of it ? ’ retorted her 
companion. ‘ Do you want to enjoy your life in general 
and this season in particular ? ’ 

‘ Of course I do, but — ’ 

‘ Then take my advice and start with your eyes open. 

• Don’t put on the white dress with the snowdrops, for no- 
body will believe in it, and don’t believe in the other snow- 
drops you see. Don’t float into life wrapped up in misty 
illusions which will blind you so that you will stumble at 
every step, but have the courage to look where you are 
treading, and then put your foot down boldly ; I believe 
: you’ve got the stuff in you to do it. In spite of that first 
ball you’re no baby, either in years or in experience ; it’s 
written in your face. Don’t imagine that there is any such 
thing as disinterested love in the world, or a friendship 
that is not to be bribed, or an opinion that is not to be 
bought — ’ 

‘ But what then remains ? ’ asked Ulrica, aghast. 

‘ What remains % Why, everything remains that is worth 
living for. English comfort remains, and continental mer- 
I ry-making, and good cookery, and well-warmed claret, and 


310 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

chairs that are cushioned to a nicety, and carnages that 
roll easily, and well-lighted rooms, and the power of beauty 
and of money — all that remains. It’s a fallacy to imagine 
that these things do not content the human heart, — it’s only 
those people who haven’t got the money to buy them who 
say they don’t, and it’s only those fools who look for virtue 
in a ball-room or heroism on the tennis-ground, who ever 
get disgusted with their bargain. As if every educated 
person nowadays did not know that virtue depends on a 
mixture of the blood, and that heroism is determined by 
the formation of the skull. Start with your eyes open, that 
is what I say.’ 

The old Marquis spoke without any trace of excitement, 
and without the slightest flavour of bitterness, as comfort- 
ably and as pleasantly as though he were discussing the last 
new drama or criticising the latest fashions. There \vas 
no more passion about him than about an extinct volcano. 
Ulrica listened almost in consternation. What a terribly 
convenient doctrine this would be if it were true ! 

' So the upshot of your teaching is that I am to throw 
all my beliefs overboard ? ’ 

‘ Make a clean sweep of them at once, that’s my advice. 
It’s what I’ve done myself, and you can’t imagine how 
well it agrees with me. Believing in anything or anybody 
is a sort of illness one has got to go through in tender years, 
like measles ; it does you no harm then, but, if you catch 
the infection when you are old, you generally die of it. 
Bless your heart, there was no end to the things I used to 
believe in when I was your age and under ; I remember a 
time when I firmly believed that / should go to Heaven in 
a fiery chariot, and now I don’t even believe that Elijah ever 
went.’ 

‘Your theory agrees with you, at any rate,’ remarked 
Ulrica reflectively ; ‘ you positively look as if you hadn’t a 
care in the world. I wonder if it would agree with me as 
well. Do you know that you have rather tickled my fancy 
— I also have had beliefs, and they also have failed me. 
What would you say to me as a disciple ? ’ 

‘ I have answered that question already ; I said from the 
first that you do not belong to the ordinary genus debutante. 


THE EDGE OF THE WHIRLPOOL. 311 

I’ll take you for a disciple if you’ll take me for your guide, 
philosopher, and friend in the labyrinthine ways in which 
you are about to tread.’ 

‘All right,’ laughed Ulrica, sipping her champagne. 
‘ The compact is closed.’ 

It was on the day after this dinner-party, on the day of 
the ball at the Russian Embassy, to which Mrs. Byrd had 
succeeded in getting invitations for herself and Ulrica, that 
Charlotte turned up in London, unannounced and unex- 
pected. She had suddenly discovered that she had some 
very urgent shopping to do, she explained, and since there 
were so many empty rooms in Park Lane, she had thought 
that Ulrica might, perhaps, not object, etc., and since the 
shopping really was very urgent, she had not taken time to 
write and inquire, etc., etc. 

Ulrica received her with a blank stare ; whatever brought 
Charlotte to London it was glaringly evident that shopping 
had nothing to do with it. ‘ So you are quite determined 
to go to the Russian Embassy this evening ? ’ she inquired 
in the course of the afternoon, though she had already 
heard the order for the carriage given and had seen Ul- 
rica’s dress lying ready on the bed. 

‘ Certainly I am,’ said Ulrica in surprise. ‘ It isn’t such 
a desperate resolve either, so far as I can see.’ 

‘ I only meant,’ faltered Charlotte, ‘ that I — I thought 
you looked tired, and it will be a terrible crush, I imagine 
^ — it always is.’ 

‘ Dear me,’ laughed Ulrica, with a touch of impertinence, 
‘ you almost look as though you regretted the chance of 
being in the crush yourself ! ’ 

‘ I ? Oh, well, I didn’t mean that exactly — that is to 
say — I suppose you have made a great many new ac- 
quaintances ? ’ she abruptly inquired. 

‘ Oh yes, lots ; that’s what I came for.’ 

‘And,’ asked Charlotte, her eyes fixed watchfully on 
Ulrica’s face, ‘ have you met any old ones ? ’ 

‘ Hardly, since there are no Glockenau peasants here, 
nor yet any of my father’s old comrades. Have you any- 
thing else to ask ? I think it is time for me to dress ; ’ and 
Ulrica hurried from the room and betook herself to the 


312 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

apartment in which Mademoiselle Seraphine had been wait- 
ing on thorns for the last half-hour. 

‘ I almost wish I had told her I couldn’t take her in/ 
reflected Ulrica as she mounted the stairs i ‘ she always 
seems to act like an irritant upon my nerves. I can’t make 
out why she has come.’ 

When, an hour later, Charlotte opened the drawing-room 
door, she stood still on the threshold with an exclamation 
on her lips. Ulrica was standing in the centre of the room 
buttoning her gloves; Mademoiselle Seraphine, on her 
knees, was giving some mysterious touches and pinches to 
the silken folds of the skirt. A costly fur wrap lay on a 
chair close by, A few paces off, Mrs. Byrd, herself ar- 
rayed in a brand-new ruby velvet, was standing in speech- 
less admiration. Lord Cannington’s warning with respect 
to the white frock and the snowdrops had been quite 
superfluous. Ulrica had, from the first, repudiated the 
idea of anything over-youthful in her costume. The heavy 
cream silk, relieved by a great cluster of scarlet berries on 
the skirt, had been pronounced by its fabricator to be 
‘ much more the thing for a “ married w^oman,” my lady,’ 
but its rich simplicity most admirably suited the statuesque 
proportions of Ulrica’s figure and showed up her ripe, glow- 
ing beauty to perfection. In her dark hair the rowans 
burnt like fire, and a single row of pearls clasped her throat. 

‘ I was against the idea,’ said Mrs. Byrd, who was slowly 
walking round and round her charge, ‘ but I confess my- 
self vanquished. It was an inspiration.’ 

Mrs. Byrd was in the highest of spirits. For the first 
time for five years she was going to a ball in a dress of 
which neither trimming nor lining, neither buttons nor 
bows, had ever seen service before, and the sensation was 
exhilarating, all the more exhilarating from the fact that 
she would never even require to see the bill for that dress. 
Ulrica had insisted on her accepting it as a present, point- 
ing out that it was absurd to expect that Mrs. Byrd’s pri- 
vate wardrobe could be expected to stand the wear and 
tear which the office of chaperon brought with it, and Mrs. 
Byrd, after a brief resistance, had admitted that she was 
not too proud to resign herself to this view of the case. 


THE EDGE OF THE WHIRLPOOL. 313 

Charlotte said nothing when she saw Ulrica in her ball- 
dress, but her eyes never left the girl until, followed by the 
curious glances and the admiring whispers of domestics, 
posted at every vantage-point and peeping round every 
corner, she had disappeared into the carriage. Then she 
sat down on the nearest chair and wrung her hands. A 
feeling of utter despair had come over her. 

The Russian Embassy was one blaze of light when Ul- 
rica with her chaperon stepped out of the carriage. Ulrica 
was quite silent as they mounted the staircase ; there was 
a flush on her face, and her heart was beating, not with 
trepidation, but with an excited curiosity. This was the 
beginning of something new, something that was to be a 
chapter in her life. On every landing and in every avail- 
able corner costly shrubs were grouped ; silk trains rustled 
over the carpeted steps, the buzz of many voices, half- 
drowned in the rising and falling of dreamy waltz-music, 
floated down to meet them. It seemed to Ulrica that she 
had not got eyes enough wherewith to look about her and 
drink in all the marvels with which she was surrounded. 
So eagerly was she glancing to the right and to the left 
that she all but omitted to shake hands with her host- 
ess, nor did she ask herself what was the meaning of the 
look of blank astonishment with which that lady received 
her. 

They were in the ball-room by this time. The waltz 
had just come to an end as they entered, and the couples 
were breaking up. It was a moment of comparative quiet 
and comparative — only very comparative — emptiness, just 
enough to give a certain conspicuous prominence to each 
new apparition in the doorway. Ulrica, having in her 
breathless wonder moved several steps forward into the 
room and standing for the moment entirely isolated, asked 
herself why the buzz of conversation had suddenly grown 
so faint, why so many faces were turned towards the en- 
trance, and why, in so many eyes, was written that same 
blank wonder which she had observed in those of her 
hostess. What could they be looking at ? And how came 
they all to be looking at one and the same thing, when 
there were so many beautiful things to admire ’? Had all 


3H 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


these people seen so many gilt candelabra and sheets of 
mirror and banks of flowers in their life that they could so 
calmly turn their backs upon these ? 

The question floated through Ulrica’s mind, but in the 
next instant the answer had come. In one moment she 
had realised that she was the object that was being de- 
voured by those hundreds of eyes on all sides, — ^look which 
way she would, she met their gaze. As in a flash of light 
it became clear to her that of all the beautiful things around 
her she was the most beautiful, of all the wonders on all 
sides she the most wonderful, and all at once, as she noted 
all these people hanging upon her every movement, her 
heart swelled proudly with the consciousness of this power 
that was put into her hand. For one moment her lips 
parted and she smiled as though this crowd in the ball- 
room were a herd of slaves and she their rightful sover- 
eign, then all at once the many eyes seemed to grow op- 
pressive, and turning abruptly she looked round as though 
for an escape. 

‘ It was the garden-party again, only ten times more so,’ 
wrote Miss Kitty Milford, when she was describing the 
scene to her usual correspondent. ‘The faces were a 
study. The men’s all had that silly vacant look upon 
them which I am sure you have often observed on occa- 
sions of this sort, and which seems to reduce them all 
momentarily to one level of intelligence, and the women 
either looked conspicuously indifferent or else resigned. I 
don’t think that in that first moment anybody exactly felt 
jealous — it was too hopeless a case for that. Stars don’t 
feel jealous of the sun, I suppose. Later on, at supper-time, 
when they had recovered from the first shock, somebody 
discovered that her hands were sunburnt and a good deal 
spoilt. You can’t imagine what a weight that took off 
everybody’s mind ; the dejected beauties looked lovingly at 
their own lily fingers and revived like flowers in the dew.’ 

In the moment that Ulrica turned to escape from the 
gaze of the ball-room, she almost ran against a gentleman 
who had been watching her during the last minute. 

‘ Whither so fast ? ’ he asked, with a dry laugh. ‘ Scared 
already ? ’ 


THE EDGE OF THE WHIRLPOOL. 315 

Ulrica recognised her dinner-neighbour of two nights 
ago. ‘ And what do you think of it all ? ’ he inquired, 
twirling his pointed grey moustache and smiling his most 
sardonic smile. 

‘ I don’t think anything, I haven’t had time to think. I 
feel as though something were happening, only I don’t ex- 
actly know what.’ 

^ Don’t you ? I do. I’ll tell you what’s happening ; the 
event of the London season is happening. Do you see all 
those heads moving, and do you hear all those excited S’s 
flying about ? It’s you who are at the bottom of it all. 
From this moment forward London knows you.’ 

‘ London certainly stares very hard,’ said Ulrica, begin- 
ning to recover herself. 

‘ Yes, but it’s not a thoughtless stare. London calculates 
very neatly, too ! Of every fifty people in the room forty 
are, at this moment, calculating the possible advantages or 
disadvantages which your appearance in London may bring 
to them. Do you see that row of dowagers over there ? 
Half of them hate you already because they have got mar- 
riageable daughters, the other half love you because they 
have got marriageable sons.’ 

‘Not so fast,’ said Ulrica, laughing, for her spirits were 
beginning to rise, excited by the scene around her. ‘ Isn’t 
that enough for a first lesson f ’ 

‘I am almost done. In another minute I shall leave 
you to your fate. Remember only that every person who 
speaks civilly to you this evening does so with an object, 
and that there is a motive behind every smile. It may not 
necessarily be a motive directly connected with matri- 
mony, — self-interest has all sorts of ramifications. Some 
of them count upon you for adding brilliancy to their 
dinner-tables, others will expect to be invited to your 
house, none will forget that you have money to spend on 
any fancy that may cross your mind, and that a girl of 
your age is not generally a troublesome object to plunder. 
Here is your chaperon, bringing the first batch of vult- 
ures; I shall inquire later on how you have fared,’ and 
with his hands behind him Lord Cannington sauntered 
away into the crowd. 


3i6 a queen of curds and cream. 

It was a youthful and impecunious earl whom Mrs. Byrd 
was leading up to Ulrica. His hair and his face were of 
two different shades of red, which, however, did not match, 
of which fact he seemed to be acutely aware. Amid burn- 
ing blushes which only served to accentuate the unfortu- 
nate assortment of tints, he stammered out a request for a 
dance. 

‘ I can’t dance,’ replied Ulrica calmly. ‘ I never learnt.’ 

There was a movement of interest among the by- 
standers, and the young earl immediately collapsed. 
Others succeeded him. The heiress’s declaration that she 
could not dance seemed not in the least to lower her value 
in the ball-room. Though she did not dance she could be 
talked to, she could be taken in to supper, she could be 
escorted from one room to another. An hour had flown 
by, Ulrica scarcely knew how, and her triumph seemed 
ever growing. She was being talked to in broken English 
by an evidently already deeply smitten French attache^ 
when a professional joker who was standing near, pointing 
to a group of three persons, audibly observed: ‘The 
World, the Flesh, and the Devil.’ 

The trio he indicated consisted of two gentlemen and a 
lady. Of the lady it will be enough to say that if she had 
not happened to be a duchess she could scarcely have 
failed to make the fortune of any travelling show accus- 
tomed to have a Fat Lady on its list of attractions. The 
‘ Devil ’ of the trio was represented by Lord Cannington, 
whose bushy eyebrows and stiffly waxed moustache, seen 
from this angle, appeared even more Mephistophelian than 
usual. And the ‘World’ — Ulrica looked again — surely 
the smooth, prosperous back of that typical ‘ World ’ was 
familiar to her ? Mr. Rockingham — of course, as he turned 
his head she recognised the ambassador, and in the same 
instant, abandoning the stout duchess, he advanced towards 
her with the smile of an old friend. 

‘ False to my tryst,’ remarked Mr. Rockingham, taking 
the place beside her, and speaking not quite as calmly as 
usual, for his eyes, too, were dazzled by the radiance of her 
beauty. ‘ The first waltz, alas, had become a thing of the 
past before I had set foot in the room.’ 


THE EDGE OF THE WHIRLPOOL. 


317 


‘ That is not of much consequence since I have not be- 
gun my dancing-lessons yet,’ answered Ulrica with a sud- 
denly clouded brow. In the moment that she recognised 
Mr. Rockingham the riddle of Charlotte’s sudden appear- 
ance in London had become clear to her. The society 
column of the Spy had no doubt informed the widow 
of his arrival. At this new proof of Charlotte’s infatu- 
ation the irritation of the afternoon woke up again in 
Ulrica. Mr. Rockingham, unaware of the cause, looked 
j at her in some surprise, startled by her expression of dis- 
I pleasure. 

‘ I trust you do not put down my late appearance to any 
! neglect on my part — it was solely owing to some business 
, dispatches, which — ’ 

j But Ulrica was already laughing, the cloud quite chased 
from her brow, a mischievous sparkle in her eyes. 

I ‘Never mind what it was owing to, you can make up 
' for it in some other way.’ 

‘ By a square dance, perhaps ? ’ suggested Mr. Rocking- 
ham, greatly relieved. 

‘ No ; I can’t risk that yet — by coming to tea to-morrow, 
or to dinner, if you hke.’ 

It had suddenly occurred to Ulrica that to have Mr. 
Rockingham to dinner, and to put Charlotte on thorns by 
letting her imagine that she favored his attentions, would 
be a somewhat entertaining way of revenging herself for 
the irritation caused by the widow’s sudden descent upon 
the scene. A dangerous game ? Bah, that idea does not 
often occur in a ball-room, — to Ulrica, in the flush of her 
J triumph, her newly discovered power only just beginning 
to work in her hands, her nerves tingling with the echo of 
the music, her eyes dazzled with the brilliancy around her, 
there was no chance of it occurring just yet. 

Everything was a sham — so her new cicerone had said — 

. why should she alone set up for a piece of honesty ? 

‘The hours will be counted to the moment of your ap- 
■ pearance,’ she observed, a suggestive smile playing about 
: the comers of her lips. 

Mr. Rockingham was not quite sure whether he heard 
f aright. His hopes were strong, but he had not been pre- 


3i8 a queen of curds and cream. 

pared for quite such a miraculous rapidity in the progress 
of his suit. 

^ By whom ? ’ he asked in a subdued murmur. 

^By whom?’ repeated Ulrica, playing with the red 
berries on her dress; ‘why, by your old playmate, of 
course, whom, I take for granted, you will be delighted to 
see.’ 

‘ Is Lady Nevyll in town ? ’ 

The ambassador’s face had so suddenly grown to twice 
its usual length that Ulrica laughed outright. 

‘ Come to dinner to-morrow and you will see.’ 

‘ And am I to be expected only by my old playmate ? 
Is my coming absolutely indifferent to — every one else ? ’ 

‘ Has your hostess declared that it is indifferent to her ? ’ 
asked Ulrica, coquettishly, over the top of her fan. It was 
only within the last few months that she had learnt the art 
of handling a fan at all, but most intelligent female natures 
are imitative, and Ulrica had already had occasion to 
observe that glances sent over the tops of fans are more 
effective than ordinary glances, and for this reason, proba- 
bly, very widely practised in ball-rooms. 

The words, even without the glance, would have been 
enough for Mr. Rockingham. Ready as he always was to 
meet all proofs of regard for his person half-way, he was 
not slow to welcome this happy omen. ‘ If I had known 
the pace at which the thing would go,’ was his last con- 
scious thought as he dropped into a feverish sleep on the 
night — or rather on the morning after the ball at the Rus- 
sian Embassy, ‘ I need not even have asked for eight 
weeks’ leave. According to all the symptoms of the case 
I can be back at my post with an easy conscience before 
four weeks are over ’ 


THE MIDDLE OF THE WHIRLPOOL. 


319 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

THE MIDDLE OF THE WHIRLPOOL. 

Lord Cannington had been right. When Ulrica 
awoke on the morrow of her first ball, she found herself 
famous. The society papers teemed with references to the 
Austrian beauty who had taken the world by storm. It so 
happened that a suitable object for enthusiasm had lately 
been wanting, and this fresh excuse for going into raptures 
was therefore seized upon. That this girl who now sat at 
their dinner-tables had once milked cows and churned 
butter — as was dimly understood to be the case — only 
served to add a certain piquancy to her other charms. It 
was supposed to be Lord Cannington who first christened 
her ‘ The Queen of Curds and Cream ’ ; whosesoever idea 
it was, it spread like wildfire, and in a wonderfully short 
time Ulrica came to be for London at large, not ‘ Countess 
Eldringen,’ not the ‘ Austrian Heiress,’ but simply ‘ The 
Queen of Curds and Cream.’ 

However plainly she might betray her inexperience of 
society, society refused to be ruffled. Mistakes which in a 
penniless maiden would have been mercilessly condemned 
as ‘ bad form ’ only caused people to smile blandly and to 
observe that a little originality was so refreshing, ‘ so un- 
conventional, don’t you know.’ And the speakers said this 
in perfect good faith, honestly unconscious of the coloured 
glasses through which they looked. Ulrica could have no 
better scene than London for the field of her triumphs ; in 
Vienna, too, the most exclusive of all aristocracies would 
have ended by bending their stiff necks before the might 
of this great wealth, but they would have done so with an 
afterthought, a lurking reservation in their minds that, 
though the power of money is no longer to be denied, yet 
for a person who can produce a complete set of ancestors 
to make up to a person unable to stand examination on 
this point always remains an unspeakable condescension. 

2T 


320 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

They would have grovelled to her in public and sneered 
at her in private. We English are more honest ; at sight of 
such a golden calf as this the very idea of a pedigree van- 
ishes from our minds, and we go down plump upon both 
our knees at once. 

In a very short space ‘ The Queen of Curds and Cream ’ 
had become as much the rage as though she had been a 
new shade of colour or a popular waltz tune. It was the 
fashion to rave about her, just as it sometimes is the fashion 
to dress one’s hair high or to smoke cigarettes. Every mo- 
ment of her day was claimed by eager acquaintances. Ball 
followed ball, dinner-party trod upon the heels of dinner- 
party, concerts, picnics, routs — they all tumbled on the top 
of each other like the colours in a kaleidoscope. In a cer- 
tain sense it was more fatiguing than the work at the 
Marienhof had ever been, yet Ulrica refused no invitation. 
* As good a way of forgetting as any other ’ — the words 
came to her like an echo of a far-off time. Who was it 
who had spoken “? She dared not think — fortunately she 
had no time to think. Her health seemed invulnerable ; 
her beauty, enhanced by every advantage of dress — and 
at this time she began to spend money lavishly on dress as 
well as on everything else — shone out with double splen- 
dour in its new setting. Neither did anybody ever see her 
except in the best of spirits. Like a person who has fasted 
long, the wine of flattery had rushed at one bound to her 
head. 

‘ Is this the middle of the whirlpool ? ’ she asked of Lord 
Cannington, meeting him on one occasion at a particularly 
crowded rout, ‘ or is there a yet deeper depth f ’ 

Lord Cannington never obtruded himself, but he had a 
way of appearing at her elbow, ready to point out and in- 
terpret to her the sights around. Between the young girl 
and the old worldling a sort of curious ca7naraderie had 
sprung up. The barefaced materialism of this cheerful 
cynic, who, while rejecting the kernel of everything, yet 
managed to make a very comfortable living of the husks, 
was the very thing to suit her present mood. The more 
she got to know him the better she seemed to understand 
those influences which had suiTounded Gilbert’s life and 


THE MIDDLE OF THE WHIRLPOOL. 321 

worked his mental ruin. At moments she could almost 
fancy that she was listening to the same evil genius who 
had whispered in his ear. 

In nothing were the new influences of her life so ap- 
parent as in her intercourse with Charlotte’s old lover, 
Mr. Rockingham. Under ordinary circumstances that mis- 
chievous desire of provoking Charlotte which had given the 
first impulse to her apparent favouring of Mr. Rockingham 
would probably have died a natural death, but on this soil 
and under these influences it increased instead of dimin- 
ished. Dating from the morrow of her first ball, when he 
came to dinner at her special request, and when she had 
amused herself by frustrating Charlotte’s spasmodic en- 
deavours to monopolise the ambassador’s attention, her 
encouragement of Mr. Rockingham, though capricious 
and unequal, had been taken note of by society, and had 
driven half the eligible epouseurs of London wild with 
jealousy. She seemed to have discovered an unsuspected 
vein of cruelty within her soul — pity and tenderness were 
turned to stone. Since she had been cheated of her hap- 
piness, why should she not cheat some other woman in re- 
turn, and thus be avenged upon the world and upon fate ? 

To Charlotte these weeks were one long agony, and yet 
she could not tear herself away from London. The ques- 
tion of the ‘ urgent shopping ’ had died out long ago ; she 
gave no reason for her prolonged stay in Park Lane, yet 
no one had any doubts on the subject. She was fighting 
against fate, but without vigour and without zest — the 
struggle was too unequal. How can the subdued charms 
of after-summer hope to be recognised when spring with 
all its blossoms has burst unawares upon the scene % What 
chance has the scentless crocus of being gathered when 
the perfumed rose is there ? All those little innocent sub- 
terfuges, those wily attempts artificially to enhance the re- 
mains of her beauty, how ludicrous they suddenly appeared ! 
What was the use of adjusting her laces with such painful 
nicety, since Ulrica in the most careless of attires outshone 
her completely % Why be forever anxiously contriving to 
place herself only in the most becoming of lights, when the , 
broadest glare of daylight upon Ulrica’s face only served 


32 2 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

to show Up her youthful beauty more triumphantly ? In 
her despair poor Charlotte once had the idea of appealing 
to Mrs. Byrd in the hope of gathering some consolation, for 
she had not forgotten that that lady had shown some con- 
siderable interest in the history of the buried romance. But 
here the also woful disappointment awaited her. ‘ An old 
playmate, did you say he was ? ’ repeated Mrs. Byrd 
briskly. ‘Ah, yes, to be sure, I remember now, you told 
me something of the sort last year ; but you don’t want him 
to be playing games with you now, do you ? ’ 

‘ But yet you said then,’ faltered Charlotte — ‘ you seemed 
to think that he had not quite forgotten old times.’ 

‘ Did 1 1 Very possibly ; but he seems to prefer new 
times, on the whole,’ laughed Mrs. B 5 rrd, from whose mind 
the whole ‘ playmate ’ affair had been dismissed as soon as 
it had served its purpose. 

‘ I rather wonder how it will end.’ This last remark was 
not made to Charlotte, but was a private reflection of Mrs. 
Byrd’s own. She really was very much puzzled to know 
how it would all end ; her protegee had got beyond her 
control and comprehension. 

‘ I really cannot make out what more you want or what 
you are waiting for,’ she remarked one day in the begin- 
ning of June. ‘ You have had three coronets offered to you 
in four weeks ; I should have thought that was pretty fair 
work, but I don’t believe you feel even particularly flat- 
tered. Sometimes I think that you are making fun of 
everything and everybody. Where did you learn the art 
of driving people so out of their minds ? I didn’t know 
they taught flirting in pine forests ? ’ 

Ulrica laughed. She was lounging in an easy-chair, her 
hands clasped behind her neck, her embroidered shoe 
balanced on the tip of her foot. Through the open win- 
dow near her the hum of the streets floated in with the 
warm air and the scent of the mignonette in the boxes. 

‘ Oh, I always do thoroughly whatever I do,’ she ob- 
served, throwing her head a little further back against the 
cushions. ‘ I have had hard times enough, so why shouldn’t 
I have some fun at last ? ’ 

‘ Why not indeed ? Don’t imagine, pray, that I intend 


THE MIDDLE OF THE WHIRLPOOL. 


323 


to moralise, only how much longer do you suppose your 
health will stand the wear and tear of this particular sort of 
fun? As for me, I am almost done for; you will pres- 
ently have to advertise for another chaperon. I should 
advise one fresh from the country.’ 

‘ Oh, nonsense, I can’t give you up,’ said Ulrica imperi- 
ously, ‘ I’ve got used to you. You will have to hold out a 
little longer. I’ve not had half enough of it yet. I have 
got all sorts of plans.’ 

‘ Surely you don’t intend to furnish the drawing-room all 
over again ? The new hangings have not been up a week. 
Or to have a marble pavement laid down in the lobby ? ’ 

‘ No ; the drawing-room can remain for the present. I 
am not going , to buy any more furniture just now, but I 
am going to give a ball.’ 

la bonne heurel ’ cried Mrs. Byrd, reviving on the 
instant ; ‘ and of course you will invite every celebrity in 
town — -please do, like a dear, and I can lay in stores of 
guests for Collingwood.’ 

‘ But it is not to be an ordinary ball — anybody can do 
that, and ordinary balls are, after all, very monotonous. I 
want something new. I should like to astonish London, 
since London has almost done astonishing me. Try and 
think of some plan.’ 

‘ A costume ball ? ’ suggested Mrs. Byrd. 

Ulrica shrugged her shoulders disdainfully. ‘ In order 
to give people the opportunity of wearing out the cos- 
tumes they got for Lady Filagree’s fete. What an idea! 
Try and think of something else.’ 

Mrs. Byrd applied herself to the task, but could think of 
nothing better than an abnormal display of orchids, an 
abnormal number of Chinese lanterns, or a peculiarly brill- 
iant cotillon to give a special character to the entertain- 
ment, all of which suggestions were in turn rejected, as 
wanting in originality. 

‘ Really, unless you smother your guests in a rain of roses 
like that Roman emperor — what’s his name? — I don’t 
quite see what line you can strike out,’ she remarked at 
last, in despair. ‘ They’re in full season now, at least, so 
the idea is not unfeasible.’ 


324 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

‘ I would rather smother them in something that is not 
in full season,’ began Ulrica. ‘ I have it!’ she cried, sud- 
denly sitting upright. ‘ I am going to give an ice fete' 

‘An ice fete in June?’ repeated Mrs. Byrd, almost 
aghast. 

‘ Exactly, in June — therein lies the charm. There’s 
nothing particular about giving one in January. Oh, that 
look on your face settles it ; if all London only looks half 
as astonished as that I shall be quite satisfied. I read the 
other day of an American millionaire who invited his 
friends to a skating-party on midsummer’s day ; there is no 
earthly reason why I should not do the same. We are in 
the nineteenth century, you know, when everything is only 
a question of money. The big conservatory downstairs at 
the back of the dining-room shall be turned into an ice- 
tank, or the whole yard might be roofed over and artifi- 
cially frozen. There must be blocks of ice in every cor- 
ner, and there must be a big arch built of ice-blocks, and 
by rights the decorations should all be wintry — snowdrops, 
and Christmas roses, and so on ; then something could be 
done with electric lamps, I suppose, placed among the ice- 
blocks. Oh yes, it’s a splendid idea. At least no one will 
complain of the heat, though possibly some of the dowa- 
gers may have colds in their heads next day.’ 

‘ Really, my dear, I am beginning to think that you must 
be a direct descendant of the man who invented the rose- 
shower. A celebrated historian who was staying at Col- 
lingwood last year told me that the Roman emperors were 
the only people who knew how to spend money properly. 
What puzzles me is the rapidity with which you have fallen 
into the knack. If the thing is only feasible it will be the 
hit of the season. And, by-the-bye, my dear, if it does 
come off, there is that poor Mrs. White who begged me 
the other day with tears in her eyes to put in a word for her 
three girls; she hoped for a dinner-party, but this, of 
course, would give them better chances still, and then 
there is — ’ 

‘ Oh, never fear, I am going to leave out nobody. 
Any one who likes can have a share of the spoil. By-the- 
bye, what was it that old Lady Muzzleton was talking to 


THE MIDDLE OF THE WHIRLPOOL. 


325 

you so earnestly about last night ? Was she, too, giving 
you a message for me ? ’ 

Mrs. Byrd looked as much emban-assed as it lay in her 
nature to be. ‘ She was ; but to tell you the truth, my 
dear, I haven’t quite had the face to deliver it. It was 
about that hundred pounds you were so kind as to obhge 
her with last month, when her supplies were late.’ 

‘And does she think I want it back again in such a 
hurry ? ’ 

‘ It’s not that — in fact, she couldn’t give it you back now, 
even if she wanted to ever so much. It seems that her sup- 
plies are late again — if, indeed, they exist at all,’ added Mrs. 
Byrd frankly. ‘ What she was saying to me last night was 
that if I couldn’t persuade you to oblige her with another 
small loan she really didn’t know what would happen — 
probably she would have to counter-order her court-dress 
or else take back the invitations to her rout' 

‘ Poor old soul ! She needn’t do that,’ said Ulrica, with a 
face so inscrutable that Mrs. Byrd could make nothing of it. 

If Ulrica’s object was to astonish London, she had 
gained her end. Not a word was breathed of the surprise 
in store until, after various consultations and experiments, 
the plan had proved itself to be feasible and the prepara- 
tions were already far advanced. It was on a peculiarly 
sultry day, that London, lying in easy-chairs, panting at 
open windows, fanning itself and mopping its brow, was 
electrified by the invitation to an ice fete^ endorsed by 
the request to bring plenty of wraps and a special note to 
the skaters not to leave their skates at home. 

The thing, first treated as a joke, was soon ascertained to 
be a solid reality, and from that moment onwards the ex- 
pectation of this wonder monopolised conversation. Peo- 
ple who might have had the money to do the thing them- 
selves were provoked that the idea had not occurred to 
them in time ; other people who neither had the money nor 
had been visited by the idea talked of bad taste and the 
love of display. 

In very truth, however, it was not the love of display, but 
solely an ever-growing hunger after excitement, which was 
the mainspring of Ulrica’s action. 


326 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

Even Charlotte had been caught by the infection of the 
ice fete^ and seemed more than half-inclined to stake her 
last wavering hopes on what it might bring. 

" Since it is to be in the house/ she said to Mrs. Byrd, 
‘ do you think that there could be any harm in my appear- 
ing ? I could wear lilac, you know, and of course I should 
not dance. After all, it is more than a year and a half 
since my husband’s death.’ 

‘ You must decide that for yourself,’ replied Mrs. Byrd, 
who was too busy planning decorations to attend to the 
point. 

But to decide for herself was just the very thing that 
Charlotte could not do. She would and she would not, 
she ordered her dress and counter-ordered it and ordered 
it again, and though it came home punctually on the 
morning of the ice-ball, she had not yet made up her mind 
as to whether she would wear it or no. It was Charlotte’s 
misfortune always to be standing at cross-roads, always with 
a dozen paths diverging at her feet, forever to be falling not 
between two, but between a dozen of stools. Ulrica’s way, 
on the contrary, though sometimes it was steep and rocky 
and sometimes broad and smooth, of the sort which leads to 
destruction, was always clearly marked, without any of those 
deceptive corners and perplexing twists which so sorely 
puzzled poor Charlotte. 

It was drawing towards evening, and still Charlotte 
stood at the cross-roads and hesitated. Should she re-enter 
the world to-day or should she continue this farce of a 
widow’s mourning for yet another while ? The dress was 
there all ready. She would wait till she heard Ulrica pass 
the door of her bedroom before she finally decided. Surely 
it was getting late ; why had Ulrica not gone to dress ? 

If Charlotte had been able to throw a glance into the 
morning-room straight below, she would have seen that 
Ulrica was so engrossed in the perusal of a newspaper 
article that she had all but forgotten the dressing-hour. 
The evening post had brought a pile of letters and papers ; 
they lay beside her on the table untouched for the most 
part. The first article on which her eye had chanced to 
alight had immediately arrested her attention. It was not 


THE MIDDLE OF THE WHIRLPOOL. 


327 

a political article, rather one of those descriptive articles 
more generally found in magazines. ‘ Letters from a Pine 
Forest,* was the heading, and obviously this was not the first 
of the series. It was the words ‘ pine forest ’ which had first 
attracted her, and the further she read the m.ore a strange, 
wondering yearning was stirred within her. There was not 
much attempt at style in the article, but it breathed the 
spirit of rustic solitude. Ulrica’s thoughts flew to the 
woods she knew so well and had once loved so dearly ; she 
seemed to be treading those mossy paths again, to be list- 
ening to the murmur of just such a double-voiced rivulet 
as the one here described. 

‘ Come in’ — she interrupted her own train of thought, 
for there had been a knock at the door. To be sure, what 
was she thinking of 1 This was not Glockenau, this was 
London. Mademoiselle Seraphine, wild with impatience, 
had come to summon her mistress to the toilet-table. The 
guests would be here in half an hour, and not so much as 
a hair-pin in its place yet. 

‘ I am coming,’ said Ulrica, gathering up the letters be- 
side her. More than half of them were for Charlotte ; she 
sorted them out mechanically, her thoughts still with that 
other ‘ letter ’ which had moved her almost like a message 
from another world. One of the letters, she observed half 
unconsciously, had been to Morton and had been re-di- 
rected from there. There was nothing extraordinary about 
this, and probably the circumstance would have passed un- 
noticed by her had her attention not been passingly caught 
by the peculiarly stiff and ungainly writing on the envel- 
ope. Afterwards she fancied she had noticed that the 
stamp upon this letter was a French one, but at the mo- 
ment this detail made no impression on her mind. 

With these letters in her hand she stopped at Charlotte’s 
door and knocked. The door was opened eagerly. 

‘You are going to dress? I have been thinking it over, 
and perhaps if I come down a little later and don’t go into 
the dancing-room it might compromise matters — what do 
you — ’ 

‘ Nothing ; I think nothing : I have no opinion whatever. 
All I see is that you are dying to be there. Here are your 


328 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

letters,’ and she thrust them into Charlotte’s hand and dis- 
appeared into her own room. 

When, a little later, Ulrica emerged again, ready dressed, 
the first carriage was already heard rolling up to the 
door. 

‘ I wonder what conclusion she has come to,’ laughed 
Ulrica to herself, as she again approached Charlotte’s 
room. ‘ I suppose it would only be charitable to help her 
to make up her mind. Are you ready ? ’ she called through 
the closed door. ‘ Shall I wait for you ? ’ 

There was no answer from Charlotte, and Ulrica 
knocked impatiently, repeating her question in a louder 
voice. Still there was no movement within, and, some- 
what startled at the silence, she quickly turned the handle 
and entered. 

Charlotte, still in her black morning dress, just as Ulrica 
had left her half an hour ago, was sitting on a chair at the 
foot of the bed, staring straight in front of her with wide- 
open eyes and a face of deathly pallor. Her features, 
which Ulrica could not clearly distinguish because of the 
shadow cast by the canopy of the bed, wore a pinched and 
distorted look, as of a person who has suddenly been struck 
with a mortal terror. 

‘ Did you not hear me knock ? ’ asked Ulrica from the 
doorway. ‘ I am just going down. Why, you have not 
even begun to dress! Have you finally made up your 
mind to remain invisible, after all?’ 

Charlotte started and looked up. 

‘ I ? No, I have not made up my mind,’ she said huskily. 

'You haven’t seen a ghost, have you, in this last half- 
hour?’ and Ulrica advanced into the room. 'Why are 
you looking so startled ? ’ 

' Nothing, I am not startled ; what makes you think so ? ’ 

She rose as she spoke, and Ulrica perceived that she was 
holding a piece of paper crumpled up in her hand. It was 
only as she rose that she seemed to perceive this herself, for 
glancing downwards she started again and quickly pushed 
the paper into her pocket. At the same moment Ulrica, 
seeing an envelope on the floor, stooped to pick it up. 
It was the envelope of the letter with the French stamp 


THE ICE-BALL. 


329 


and of which the original address was written in those 
queer upright characters which had for a moment arrested 
her attention. It had not occurred to her when she first set 
eyes on the letter, but seeing it a second time she was struck 
with the idea that the writing was too stiff and unnatural 
to be anything but disguised. 

‘ Have you an anonymous correspondent ? ’ she asked 
carelessly; but in the same instant the paper she had 
scarcely touched was snatched away by Charlotte. 

‘Oh,’ laughed Ulrica. ‘No alarm! Your secrets are 
quite safe. Even if curiosity did happen to be one of my 
faults, I should have no time to indulge it just now. I be- 
lieve the people are arriving. Well, what is it to be, yes 
or no ? ’ and without waiting for the answer, Ulrica hastened 
away to receive her guests. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

THE ICE-BALL. 

‘ It’s the tip-top thing of the season ! ' 

‘ As good as the snow-ballet at Drury Lane ! ’ 

‘ A slice of St. Petersburg transplanted to London.’ 

‘ For my part, I never seriously believed it would come 
off at all.’ 

‘ Should give a good deal to know at what figure the 
whole thing stands.’ 

‘Just look! There is Percy Longham actually prac- 
tising his famous eights, as coolly as though this were 
Prince’s in January.’ 

‘ And just fancy the luxury of shivering to one’s heart’s 
content on June 24th! This day deserves to become his- 
torical.’ 

The ice-ball was waxing towards its height, and such and 
such-like remarks were flying from mouth to mouth. Ul- 
rica’s fantastical idea had been carried out with that per- 
fection which the command of unlimited means can alone 


330 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


ensure. Not a hitch anywhere; everything worked with 
absolute smoothness. In the miniature lake, with its frozen 
surface and the great ice-blocks picturesquely disposed at 
its edge, it was indeed hard to recognise an ordinary Lon- 
don stable-yard, roofed over with such cunning artifice as 
all but to delude the bewildered spectator into the belief 
that there was nothing between him and the night-sky over- 
head. In point of fact, it was only the very boldest of the 
bold who ventured upon this much observed stage ; yet, 
though non-skaters were well provided for in the dancing- 
room near by, the improvise rink remained the centre of at- 
traction. The problem of inventing a costume which 
would exactly fit the exigencies of the case was one which 
had caused many sleepless nights to the leading dress- 
makers in town, but which had been triumphantly solved 
— witness the many exquisite visions of richest red or soft- 
est blue, or golden-brown or silver-grey which w’ere flashing 
past to the ring of the skates. 

In the midst of the fairy -like scene, Ulrica stood under 
the arch built of ice-blocks which played the part of portal 
to this enchanted region, receiving the endless stream of 
guests not even yet quite exhausted. She did not skate, 
and had therefore chosen a long-trained white silk dress. 

Diamonds shone in her hair and on her neck — the mag- 
nificent Nevyll diamonds ; and except for their rainbow flash 
there was no speck of colour about her. ‘ I am going to 
play queen of the ice and snow,’ she had said jestingly to 
Mrs. Byrd; but in this she had failed. No more impos- 
sible ice-queen than this dark girl with the glowing lips and 
the glance of fire could well be imagined. Lord Canning- 
ton, with his usual frankness, was not slow to express his 
opinion on the subject. 

‘ It’s the only mistake you have made in the arrange- 
ments for this evening,’ he said to her at the first oppor- 
tunity. ‘ Don’t you know that an ice-queen is always 
expected to be fair and colourless, and — well, icy — every- 
thing, in fact, that you are not. You would have done far 
better to have put on your dairy-maid garments and kept 
to your kingdom of curds and cream. Those stones are 
meant to represent frozen drops, I suppose ? — all nonsense, 


THE ICE-BALL. 


331 


I tell you. That star on your forehead would have melted 
away long ago.’ 

‘ In which case it ought by rights to be trickling down 
my nose at this moment. How very uncomfortable! But 
I forgive you if that is the only fault you have to find with 
my ice-feast.’ 

‘ It is the only one. I approve of the idea of the thing 
even more than of the thing itself. It shows that my 
teachings have not fallen on sterile ground. Eat, drink, 
and be merry, for to-morrow you die : you have grasped 
the very essence of the only philosophy which stands the 
test of reality. And, by the way, talking of eating and 
drinking, I don’t believe you have taken so much as a 
sandwich yet. The people seem to have done arriving ; do 
you not think you have honestly earned your supper ? ’ 

As Ulrica, escorted by her grey-haired cavalier, moved 
through the crowded rooms, all eyes eagerly followed the 
queen of the feast. Compliments were whispered, con- 
gratulations were uttered, every one seemed striving for a 
glance or a smile. And almost everybody got what they 
wanted, for Ulrica’s spirits ran recklessly high to-night. 
The yearning pain awakened by that ‘ letter ’ from the pine 
forest had frightened herself. It must be overcome at any 
price ; hence that fierce light in her eyes and that hot col- 
our on her cheeks which turned the ice-queen’s robes to a 
mockery. 

‘What a wonderful show of old women,’ observed Lord 
Cannington as they passed through a room which was oc- 
cupied almost exclusively by chaperons. 

‘Wonderful!’ .said Ulrica, letting her eyes roam round 
the room. She had not looked far when her gaze was met 
by another gaze so distinct from anything she had seen 
to-night that her attention was perforce arrested. 

She looked again, more keenly this time. What she saw 
was nothing but a small, round-faced old lady, with silver- 
grey hair parted on her forehead and combed carefully 
over her ears, attired in a high black silk dress made in the 
fashion of twenty years ago, and which even by candle- 
light showed at places a suspicious shininess, and wearing 
one-buttoned black kid gloves upon her hands, which lay 


332 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


crossed in her lap. On a chair beside her were piled sev- 
eral white ball wraps, of the light, fluffy sort then worn 
by girls, and over which she was evidently mounting guard. 
No one was speaking to her, and her neighbours on either 
side, the one attired in crimson brocade the other resplen- 
dent in blue velvet, ignored her completely, yet she seemed 
contented, though perhaps a little sleepy. By her dress 
alone she would have been conspicuous, but it was not the 
dress which had caught Ulrica’s attention, it was the gaze 
that met hers. For a long time past she had seen nothing 
of the sort. Amongst all these eyes fixed on her,, with ad- 
miration, with envy, with feverish love perhaps, and per- 
haps with deadly hate, there were none that had looked at 
her just as this old lady’s blue eyes were looking at her now. 
Surely it could not be possible that that woman was pitying 
her? Ridiculous idea! Once, long, long ago it surely 
must have been, she had seen that same look of pity written 
in eyes of this same faded blue, but she could not remem- 
ber now when or how that had been. And who could she 
be ? How did this figure in its quaint incongruity come 
to be elbowing the very fashion-plates of society % Hostess 
though she was, Ulrica had to reflect for a minute before 
she was able to recollect that among the many invitations 
applied for at second- and third-hand there had been a re- 
quest on the part of poor Mrs. White (who, having a deli- 
cate chest and three daughters, was distracted between the 
terror of catching cold at the ice-feast and the fear of her 
girls losing this splendid chance), as to whether she might 
send Amy and Nelly and Ada under the care of an old 
friend, ‘ a very quiet person who does not generally go out, 
but who won’t be at all in the way.’ Here clearly was the 
explanation of this mysterious old lady’s presence. 

Even after she had passed on, and, still on Lord Can- 
nington’s arm, had entered the supper-room, that strange, 
unusual gaze continued to haunt Ulrica. 

‘ You don’t mean to say that you are going to turn pen- 
sive ? ’ remarked Lord Cannington in a tone of civil dis- 
gust, as they sat down at a vacant table. ‘ Do you know 
that you have not spoken a word for the last three min- 
utes ? ’ 


THE ICE-BALL. 


333 


‘ Have I not? Well, lost time can always be made up 
for. What will you have? Let us begin with ortolans 
and champagne.’ 

The ortolans and champagne were brought, and soon 
Ulrica was talking again as gaily as any one in the room. 
Not that there were many people in this distant supper- 
room at this moment, for the early suppers had already 
been and gone, for the present, while the bulk of the 
dancers and skaters could not yet tear themselves away 
from the scene of action. A waltz had struck up soon 
after they sat down, and within five minutes the room was 
all but deserted. 

‘ Each of those ortolans is an ideal representative of its 
race,’ remarked Lord Cannington approvingly, ‘and the 
champagne is equal to any I have tasted this season, not 
to be mentioned in the same breath with the beverage of 
that name generally provided at a so-called “ lady’s ball.” 
Those lamp-shades, too, are exactly the right colour under 
the circumstances. And to think that there are fools who 
miss enjoyments like these because they strain after ideals, 
and who declare that this world is a wretched place to live 
in! For idiots of that stamp no doubt it is, but for people 
like you and me this world is a very comfortable, warm, 
bright place, in which there are always lots of prizes to be 
gained by the wary, and lots of fun going for the gay folk. 
Am I right ? ’ 

‘Undoubtedly. I am having some excellent fun at this 
moment.’ 

‘ How ? Don’t keep me out of it, please.’ 

‘ Look at those two dowagers over there. I have been 
watching them for the last five minutes. They have been 
straining every nerve to note each breath I draw. I can 
see by the very quiver of their head-dresses that they are 
talking scandal.’ 

‘ Scandal about you and me,’ repeated Lord Cannington, 
drawing up his eyebrows. 

‘ Oh, well,’ laughed Ulrica thoughtlessly, ' there is no limit 
to the imagination of dowagers ; there’s no saying whether 
you are not suspected of having lured me into this distant 
corner in order more conveniently to make love to me. 


334 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

The poor creatures don’t know that we are teacher and 
disciple.’ 

Ulrica glanced up from her plate still laughing, her 
white teeth displayed, her eyes dancing with fun as she 
looked for a response to her jest. But Lord Cannington 
was busy fishing an atom of cork out of his champagne 
glass, and did not immediately meet her eyes. 

‘Ah!’ he drily remarked. ‘Appearances are against 
me, no doubt:’ 

‘ Never fear, your character will soon be cleared.’ 

‘And supposing I don’t want it cleared?’ he asked, 
putting aside his glass and looking straight into Ulrica’s 
face. 

There was something so astonishing in his look that she 
laid down her fork without speaking and remained staring 
at him waiting for more. 

‘ Look here,’ said Lord Cannington, speaking in just his 
ordinary chatty tone, ‘ you have learnt a good deal since I 
began to instruct you ; but those old ladies over there, after 
all, have lived longer in the world than you have, and there- 
fore know more of it than you do. They think I have 
brought you here to make love to you ; in that they are 
mistaken, for an old man to make love to a young woman 
is always in bad taste ; but in the main idea they are right. 
I brought you in here to — what shall we say ? — propose an 
arrangement to you, which I trust will meet with your ap- 
proval. Candidly, now, have you any insuperable objection 
to marrying me ? ’ 

As Ulrica did not speak, but remained staring at him 
with wide-open eyes, he quietly continued : ‘ The idea is 
astonishing at first sight, I admit it ; but consider it closely, 
and the incongruities vanish. Though our ages do not suit, 
our ideas do. I am sixty-five years of age, but what I have 
to offer you is by no means to be despised ; one of the 
oldest titles in England, and absolute freedom of action, 
mark that — a freedom without which a woman of your 
temperament would find but poor enjoyment in life, and 
which a younger husband would scarcely accord you. That 
is for your side of the bargain ; as for mine, I am satisfied 
that I shall not draw the shorter end. I have told you 


THE ICE-BALL. 


335 


that I do not intend to make love to you ; but I happen to 
be a connoisseur in beauty, and you happen to be the most 
beautiful woman I have ever seen. If I can afford — with 
my title — to buy the luxury of having a beautiful wife, 
why should I not do so ? especially as you have a fortune, 
which, properly applied, will enable us both to extract from 
life the largest possible amount of enjoyment.’ 

Ulrica was sitting bolt upright on her chair. ^ You are 
asking me to marry you ? ’ she said abruptly, as he paused. 

The Marquis inclined his head, 

‘ I have taken the liberty of laying the idea before you 
for your consideration. Take my advice and think it over. 
I should never dream of hurrying your decision.’ 

Without another word she rose, and, leaving her gloves 
and her fan on the table beside her plate, walked straight 
across the half-emptied room, past the watchful dowagers, 
and, having reached the passage, stood for a moment look- 
ing wildly about her. Something of the old hunted feel- 
ing of former days had come over her again. The memory 
of her meetings with Baron Bernersdorf, of her indignation 
against Franzl, of her flight from the peasant-house, came 
back to her mind in a confused jumble, but nothing had 
been quite so bad as this. So this man, too, had been pur- 
suing his motives, even while sneering at the self-interest 
of others. And, after all, why not ? Was this not the very 
acme of his theories ? Could there be a more triumphant 
demonstration of his teaching than just this denodment ? 
The thoughts surged through her brain as she stood for a 
moment in the doorway of the supper-room, looking to the 
right and to the left, as though considering which way she 
should go. 

A group consisting of a lady in a lilac dress and three 
gentlemen who were talking to her had formed itself in the 
passage. The lady was Lady Nevyll, and one of the three 
gentlemen was Mr. Rockingham, who had seen his hostess 
enter the supper-room on Lord Cannington’s arm and had 
therefore set himself to watch the door. 

As Ulrica appeared alone in the doorway, gloveless, 
fanless, and obviously greatly disturbed, there was first a 
pause of astonishment, followed by a rush forward of the 
22 


336 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

three black figures and the offer of three arms. Ulrica, 
looking beyond, recognised Charlotte, who was watching 
the scene with strained attention, and immediately she laid 
her hand within Mr. Rockingham’s arm. 

‘ So you decided for “ Yes,” after all,’ she said, over her 
shoulder, as she passed by Lady Nevyll’s chair. 

Charlotte made no reply. She was almost as pale still 
as she had been when Ulrica found her sitting at the foot 
of the bed that evening ; and yet, despite the pinched look 
of her features, there was something almost like satisfac- 
tion in the glance which she kept fastened on Ulrica and 
Basil as long as they were within sight. 

‘ Take me a turn through the rooms,’ said Ulrica to Mr. 
Rockingham ; ‘ I have had rather a fright, and I want to 
recover my breath.’ 

Mr. Rockingham acquiesced in silence. 

‘ Do you know what it feels like,’ she asked, with a harsh 
laugh, ‘after having lost faith in God long ago, to lose 
faith in the devil as well "? That is what has happened to 
me to-night.’ 

‘You are excited,’ said Mr. Rockingham, with a gentle 
smile ; ‘ probably you don’t mean that quite literally. Some- 
thing has annoyed you, something perhaps that Lord Can- 
nington said to you ? ’ he added, as though struck by an idea. 

‘ He asked me to marry him,’ said Ulrica bluntly, yield- 
ing once more to that demon of recklessness which had 
possessed her all evening. ‘ That is annoying enough, is it 
not?’ 

Mr. Rockingham bit his lip, but he looked more ruffled 
than surprised. 

‘ He must have been very awkward about it to upset 
you so,’ was what he remarked. 

The absence of astonishment was only a new astonish- 
ment to Ulrica. Was the thing, after all, not so very ex- 
traordinary, and was it only her ignorance that was at 
fault ? 

‘ Why, I wonder you don’t ask me whether I accepted 
him or not ? ’ she exclaimed, with a scornful curl of her lip. 

‘ I am sure you did not,’ said Mr. Rockingham, in a low 
voice; 


THE ICE-BALL. 


337 


* Sure ? ’ and there was a ring of exasperation in her 
laugh. ‘ How can any one be sure of anything f How can 
any one know whether he is standing on his head or on his 
heels in this mad world What makes you so sure of any- 
thing concerning me ? ’ 

Had they been anywhere but in the midst of this crowd 
of eyes and ears, Mr. Rockingham would have liked best 
to answer : ‘ Because I love you, and have every reason 
for supposing that my sentiments are returned.’ He had 
never had any very serious doubts regarding the success 
of his suit — he seldom had any doubts about anything he 
had once undertaken ; but for all that, the new mark of 
favour which Ulrica had so openly accorded to him had 
caused his soul to leap for joy within him. Now would 
have been the moment for speech, but, alas! this was not 
the place. All the more annoying as every day was now 
precious, by reason of his leave having run very close to its 
end, and nothing but an extreme mgency of circumstances 
would move him to ask for a prolongation even of only a 
few days. 

‘ Does it strike you as strange,’ he replied, making the 
best of the situation, such as it was, ‘ that whatever con- 
cerns you should be of interest to me ? Am I not almost 
an old friend by this time ? ’ 

‘You have been a faithful cavalier,’ said Ulrica. ‘A 
useful sort of fetch-and-carry creature,’ was what she really 
thought. 

‘ I hope to be more some day,’ answered Mr. Rocking- 
ham, below his breath. 

Ulrica glanced at him sideways, and saw that his eyes 
were hanging on her face, not diffidently precisely, for 
diffidence was a thing of which he was not capable, but 
yet with a question so eager as to be unmistakable. For 
the first time it flashed through her mind that this man 
possibly loved her. That he wished to marry her she had 
known for long, but never before had it occurred to her 
that all those smiles and glances which had had the express 
purpose of irritating Charlotte had succeeded in striking 
something like fire in the breast of this thick-skinned 
egotist. 


338 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

Her hand slipped from his arm. ‘ I think I see some 
people over there I must talk to/ she said hurriedly. They 
had reached the arch of ice which marked the approach 
to the skating-tank, and Ulrica moved away among the 
crowd. 

‘ Only a fit of girlish shyness,’ muttered Mr. Rocking- 
ham to himself as he looked after her. ‘ This place is too 
public, I shall try my luck to-morrow.’ 

Ulrica had not gone many steps when her attention was 
once more arrested by the same round-faced old lady who 
had struck her as so incongruous while seated among the 
fashionably attired dowagers. She was standing now by 
the side of the skating-tank, and the three fluffy white wraps 
hung over her arm. A good many curious glances were 
directed towards her, and a good deal of tittering went on 
behind fans, yet she stood there absolutely unaware of the 
notice she was exciting, her attention divided between the 
three Miss Whites and their wraps, which she was very 
careful not to crush, and the fringes of which evidently 
gave her some anxiety from the propensity they possessed 
of getting entangled with any other fringe which in the 
crowd around her came in momentary collision with them. 
She must be sixty, at least, thought Ulrica, as she gazed 
with a curious fascination at the round, kindly face, faintly 
pink and softly wrinkled, somewhat like a long-dried rose. 
There were wrinkles enough in the room, God knows, but 
few of them were venerable and many of them were pre- 
mature ; the smile that has been smiled too often leaves its 
mark as well as the tear that has flowed too hotly ; — but 
here was a face on which the wrinkles had come as 
wrinkles should come, by the sheer force of time and by 
the unavoidable anxiety of life. 

While Ulrica moved about talking to her guests, her 
gaze continually wandered back to the short, black figure 
with its expression of patient waiting. More than once she 
found the kindly old eyes fixed upon her. There was 
nothing obtrusive in the gaze, and yet the consciousness 
of it weighed upon the girl. At last there came a moment 
when, their eyes having met for the fifth dr sixth time, Ul- 
rica, acting on a sudden irresistible impulse, stepped up to 


THE ICE-BALL. 


339 

where she stood alone, still waiting for the three Miss 
Whites. 

‘ Have you anything to say to me ? ’ she asked, with a 
touch of impatience. ‘ Why do you look at me ? ’ 

‘ Because you are so beautiful and look so unhappy,’ re- 
plied the old lady, and looked up in Ulrica’s face with a 
mixture of confidence and compassion that was very nearly 
irresistible. It was at this moment that the vague memory 
awakened by her first glimpse of this strange guest sud- 
denly assumed a distinct shape. If she had not known 
that Pater Sepp had just been Pater Sepp, and that, more- 
over, he lay buried in the Glockenau churchyard, it might 
almost have been the eyes of the old priest into which she 
was looking. There was no other resemblance either in 
feature or colouring, it was nothing but the eyes with their 
faded blue and their look of unlimited benevolence which 
recalled her old protector. Her heart tightened with a 
pang, and yet she would not yield. Her mood was too 
hard to be softened by a mere memory. 

‘ Unhappy ? ’ she repeated, throwing up her head. ‘ What 
a preposterous idea! If you had watched me you would 
have seen that I have been laughing and talking all even- 
ing, enjoying myself immensely all the time. Have I not 
everything that I can possibly want 1 ’ 

‘ I have watched you,’ said the old lady gently, ' and I 
don’t know what it is that is awanting to you. I would 
help you if I only knew how, poor child.’ By this time 
her hand in its one-buttoned glove was softly patting Ul- 
rica’s fingers, and a little moisture had sprung to the eyes 
that were so like those of Pater Sepp. 

Ulrica sharply withdrew her hand, and without another 
word turned on her heel. ‘ Poor child! ’ Was it actually to 
/ler that those words had been applied by that old woman ? 

The feeling of indignant resistance to an influence she 
would not acknowledge remained with Ulrica until, the 
last guest having departed, she found herself in the solitude 
of her own room. The candles burned on the table, but 
through the chinks of the closed shutters the rising sun was 
shooting out its first shafts. Ulrica, her white robes still 
flowing around her, the diamonds still flashing in her hair. 


340 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


Stood in the middle of the room, casting a glance back- 
wards over the events of the evening. The ice-feast had 
been a complete success ; not even the most envious tongue 
could pick a hole in the fabric of this triumph. The night 
that had just ended would be spoken of for years. 

She moved across the room. On a chair beside the bed 
lay an open newspaper, just as she had flung it down last 
night. ‘ Letters from a Pine Forest,’ the heading once 
more met her eye. She turned away impatiently, then in 
the same minute she flung herself down in all her ice-queen 
splendour on her knees beside the bed. What was it that 
that man had said to-night ? The world bright and warm. 
Her beautiful arms were flung over the bed, her face buried 
in the coverlet. ‘ O Gilbert!’ she muttered, with dry eyes 
and burning lips. ‘ O my cousin ! This bright world is 
so dark, this warm world is so cold without you, my cousin, 
my cousin!’ 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

CHEESLEY VILLAS. 

Far, very far away from the resorts of fashionable life 
there exists a street, one of many of its kind, which calls 
itself by the dreary and significant title of Cheesley Villas. 
Everybody who knows a certain district of the outskirts of 
London knows what that means : a row of buildings des- 
perately attempting to be ornamental cottages, and suc- 
ceeding only in being gimcrack lodging-houses, endowed 
with the shallowest of bow-windows, the flimsiest of porti- 
coes, and the meagrest of stucco ornaments, standing 
generally in a garden newly laid out, in which the tallest 
shrub would scarcely afford cover to an ordinary barn-door 
fowl. According to the advertisements, the chief attraction 
of these residences, built by a speculative builder whose 
name presumably was Cheesley, consisted in the happy 
combination of town and country life which they offered ; 
and it was generally not until bound by an irrevocable con- 


CHEESLEY VILLAS. 


341 


tract that the victims discovered that they were neither in 
town nor in the country, but rather, while suffering the 
disadvantages of both, enjoyed the advantages of neither. 

In No. 8 of these villas (they were not otherwise indi- 
vidualised) luncheon, or rather a species of luncheon-din- 
ner, was going on on the 25th of June. It was a lively 
luncheon-table, if not a particularly well-stocked one, with 
representatives of all ages drawn close around it, and a 
wagging of tongues which rivalled the clattering of plates. 

‘ Granny, my napkin’s got untied, what am I to do T 

‘ Immediately, Tommy dear, I will tie it for you.’ 

‘ Granny, me vants some more puddin’.’ 

‘Yes, my pet, you shall have it. Pass your plate, like a 
good child; and don’t you think, dear, you might stop 
kicking Sammy’s legs ? ’ This not in an admonishing tone, 
but rather in one which implied that the cessation of oper- 
ations on Sammy’s legs would be considered as a great and 
personal favour to the speaker. 

‘ Mammy, do be such an angel and cut me a slice of 
bread ; it’s near you, and nobody cuts bread as you do.’ 

‘ And for me too. Auntie ! ’ 

‘ Grannv, my puddin’s too hot, I vants you to blow on 
it!’ 

‘ Immediately, my dears, immediately I ’ 

The person thus appealed to by big and little was a 
small old lady with a round face and white hair combed 
smoothly over her ears. Except that her dress was of a 
black woollen stuff instead of silk, and except that the want 
of a night’s rest was painfully visible in the dimness of her 
kindly blue eyes, Mrs. Meades in the circle of her family 
looked exactly as she had looked at the ice-ball last night. 
The miscellaneous family party collected round the table 
consisted not only of grandchildren and children, but like- 
wise of various nieces and a cousin or two, partly residents 
in No. 8 and partly unceremonious guests, who knew by 
experience that there would always be a little of the hashed 
beef and rice-pudding over for any member of the family 
who chose to drop in at this hour. 

When she had tied Tommy’s napkin, supplied the desired 
slices of bread, and blown upon little Polly’s pudding to 


342 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


the satisfaction of that young lady, Mrs. Meades gazed 
round the table to see what more she could do. There 
being no very obvious wants to supply, she cheerfully set 
about creating some by inquiring in an insinuating voice 
whether there was nobody who wanted an apple peeled ? 
Upon which half-a-dozen ‘ Ts ! ’ were shrieked out by the 
younger members of the party, as a result of which not 
even the tiniest morsel found its way into her own mouth. 

‘ Mammy really is too bad,’ observed the mother of 
the small apple-eaters, a loud-voiced, somewhat boisterous 
lady ; ‘ by rights the dessert should not have been on the 
table to-day ; Tommy did not know a line of his lessons, 
and Phil broke a window-pane this morning through sheer 
naughtiness.’ 

‘ I think I can explain about the window-pane,’ said 
Mrs. Meades eagerly. ‘ I don’t think myself that it was 
quite Phil’s fault. That ball he was playing with has such 
an awkward way of — ’ 

‘All right, all right!’ laughed Mrs. Buller, the daughter, 
making a feint of putting her hands to her ears. ‘We all 
know the sort of thing that is coming. I am sure you 
have an equally good explanation ready to account for 
the blank in Tommy’s memory. You must know,’ and she 
turned to her neighbour, a distant cousin, who was a com- 
parative stranger in the family circle, ‘ that to be accused 
of anything by anybody is enough to gain Mammy as an 
advocate and defender. Something in her constitution 
makes it morally and physically impossible for her to sit by 
and listen in silence to anybody’s character being pulled to 
pieces. The circumstances of the case may be absolutely 
strange to her, but that is no objection to her finding a 
loophole for the culprit. He didn’t mean it — that is 
always her last refuge. If a murderer were taken red- 
handed in the deed, she would still persist in clinging to 
the belief that the poor man had not meant it.’ 

‘ As for me,’ remarked another member of the party, ‘ I 
have long ago decided that the only comfortable place 
when the day of judgment comes will be close by Auntie’s 
side. I can positively see her moving from foot to foot 
while the list of my sins is being run over by that terrible 


CHEESLEY VILLAS. 


343 


angel with the trumpet, and the very moment he has done, 
I can hear her beginning in her most insinuating voice : 
“ Dear Mr. Angel, I think I can explain all that.” ’ 

‘ Splendid ! I claim the place at the other side ! ’ cried 
another. 

‘And where are we to stand, then?’ clamoured sev- 
eral voices. ‘ Who will explain away the items on our list ? ’ 

‘ What nonsense you girls do talk,’ said Mrs. Meades, 
smiling a gently delighted smile all the same, as, the apples 
being disposed of, she busied herself in distributing some 
home-made and rather singed sponge-cakes among her 
grandchildren. 

‘ Sponge-cakes as well as apples,’ sighed Mrs. Buller 
resignedly. ‘ And I don’t believe you have eaten a morsel 
of dessert yourself. It all comes from that ridiculous ex- 
pedition last night. You’re too tired to eat. Nobody but 
you would think of sacrificing their night’s rest to such a 
lanky, colourless trio as those White girls.’ 

‘ But I assure you, my dear, that they are not so very 
plain, after all ; Ada had quite a pretty colour last night, 
and Nelly.’ 

There was a burst of laughter all round the table. 

‘ There you are at it again,’ said Mrs. Buller, almost 
roughly, gazing at her mother the while with undisguised 
adoration. ‘ You’ll be explaining away the lankiness pres- 
ently, and will end in all but convincing us that the three 
Miss Whites are three beauties unappreciated. I should 
be ashamed of myself, if I were they, keeping respectable 
old ladies out of their beds, just in order to be able to dis- 
play those peaky shoulders of theirs.’ 

‘ But it’s just the old women that should make themselves 
useful,’ interposed Mrs. Meades eagerly. ‘ It’s not much 
we can do, after all. We are no good for conversation, 
for our memories are generally weak ; we are no good for 
any physical exertion, as our legs are mostly weaker still 
than our memories ; we are not pretty to look at.’ 

‘ But you are lovely to look at ! ’ came at once in an in- 
dignant chorus from big and little. ‘ Go’s the bootifullest 
pusson I’ve ever seed ! ’ shrieked Polly, with an energy as 
fierce as though she were challenging mankind at large to 


344 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


deny the assertion. Granny was surrounded in a moment, 
clambered upon, and half strangled by small arms and all 
but smothered in protesting kisses. The hubbub was at its 
very height when a sharp ring at the door-bell startled 
everybody back into more conventional behaviour. The 
sound of approaching wheels had been drowned in the 
clamour of indignation. 

‘ Such a bootiful lady in such a bootiful cawage ! ’ an- 
nounced the mobile Polly, who had already darted to the 
window. 

‘ Dear me, then I suppose I had better retire in case I 
should be put quite into the shade,’ said Mrs. Meades, still 
laughing gently, as with cap all awry and her smooth white 
hair somewhat roughened, she extricated herself from the 
hands of her grandsons, and hastily made for the nearest 
door. 

It was in the nursery that she took refuge ; she had re- 
membered that there was a hole to dam in Phil’s stock- 
ing. 

But Phil’s stocking was not destined to be darned that 
day, for scarcely had Mrs. Meades threaded her needle 
when the door was burst open by the owner of the stock- 
ing, who announced with becoming clamour that Granny 
was wanted immediately in the parlour, as the beautiful 
lady in the beautiful carriage had come expressly to see her 
and would speak to no one else. 

For a minute Granny stood stupefied, with her hands still 
thrust into the stocking she was examining. Then, quickly 
recovering herself, she smoothed her hair and went down- 
stairs. Somebody wanted her, that was enough. 

When Mrs. Meades, in her noiseless way, slipped in by 
the parlour door, she found herself confronted by a tall 
young lady, dressed in fashionable attire, who stood in the 
middle of the room. The beautiful face was almost colour- 
less, and the great grey eyes ringed round with black. It 
was the ‘ ice-queen ’ of last night. Mrs. Meades uttered an 
exclamation of mingled surprise and pleasure, and advanced 
with both hands outstretched. 

‘ My dear, how good of you to come and see an old 
woman like me ! ’ Then, as she saw her visitor’s face 


CHEESLEY VILLAS. 345 

nearer, she quickly added : ' Is there anything I can do 
for you ? ’ 

There was no immediate response. Ulrica neither 
grasped the outstretched hand nor moved from the spot on 
which she was standing. Her black brows were drawn 
together and her lips tightly set. 

‘ I have come,’ she said at last, slowly, ‘ because I wanted 
to ask you what you meant yesterday. I got your address 
from Mrs. White. What makes you fancy that I am not 
happy ? ’ 

There was defiance in the voice, but in the eyes hungrily 
fixed on the face before her there was a fierce, eager ques- 
tion. 

‘ I cannot tell you what first gave me the idea, my dear 
child, but from the moment I saw you I felt sure that there 
is something amissing in your life. I would give it you so 
gladly if I could! ’ 

A spasm passed over Ulrica’s face ; for an instant her 
brows were drawn yet more severely together. In the 
next, already the struggle was over ; covering her face with 
her hands, she burst into a passion of tears. 

Without losing any further time, Mrs. Meades took her 
visitor’s unresisting hand and led her to a sofa, crying the 
while too, for company’s sake. And then they sat down, 
side by side, the little old woman and the tall young one, 
and presently Ulrica, still sobbing as though her heart 
would break, felt soft arms round her, and after a brief 
resistance allowed her head to sink down upon a willing, 
motherly shoulder. The vehemence of her passion of grief 
shook her from head to foot, and yet in the flow of these 
tears there was an unspeakable relief. It was as though a 
torturing band were burst at last, a load lifted which for 
weeks and months had pressed upon her unbearably. 

* You are right,’ she gasped through her tears, ‘ nobody 
has guessed it but you ; I am unhappy, oh, nobody knows 
how unhappy I am! He played falsely with me, he has 
spoilt my whole life.’ 

‘ But perhaps, my dear,’ whispered the old lady, ‘ he did 
not mean it. Perhaps it may all come right yet.’ 

‘ He is dead,’ answered Ulrica, with her face still hidden. 


346 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

Mrs. Meades did not answer this time, only there was a 
little tightening of the fingers which she had clasped round 
Ulrica’s hot hand. She had gone through great and terri- 
ble griefs herself ; she had buried children and stood beside 
a husband’s grave, and she knew that there are moments in 
which words are of no avail. 

‘ I don’t myself understand what made me come to you,’ 
said Ulrica, raising her head again after a long pause ; ‘ I 
think it is because you remind me of somebody I once 
knew — an old man who was kind to me.’ 

‘ You couldn’t have done anything that pleased me bet- 
ter,’ replied Mrs. Meades in genuine delight. ‘ Yes, Sammy 
dear, what is it ! ’ for at that moment Sammy’s head was 
pushed in through the door. 

' Granny, where’s that string you promised me for my 
top?’ 

‘ One moment, my dear,’ and trotting off to a table at the 
end of the room, she produced out of a drawer a discarded 
cigar-box in which every morsel of twine off every parcel 
that entered the house was religiously stored for emergen- 
cies like this. There was a quite similar box alongside, 
devoted to tissue-paper, acquired in the same manner and 
carefully smoothed out of its original creases. 

‘ They are so used to come to me when their mother is 
busy,’ she explained apologetically, as she returned to 
Ulrica’s side. ‘ We keep so few servants that — ’ 

Here once more the door was opened, this time to admit 
Polly, who walked in quite decorously with a message from 
her mamma. Her baby sister, Ella, Polly reported, had 
fallen down and bumped her head, and absolutely refused 
either to be comforted or to have her forehead bathed un- 
less Granny and just Granny and nobody but Granny held 
the sponge. Would the ‘bootiful’ lady, therefore, do 
without Granny for just five minutes ? 

With a deprecating glance Mrs. Meades slipped from the 
room exactly as she had slipped into it. 

By the time she rejoined her visitor the latter had partly 
regained her composure. She had dried her eyes and 
pushed up her veil, though her lips still quivered with the 
violence of her sobs. 


CHEESLEY VILLAS. 


347 


‘ Is it because you have not got your hands full enough 
already,’ asked Ulrica, with an unsteady smile, ‘ that you go 
out of your way to take an interest in strangers ? ’ 

Mrs. Meades’ hand went up as though to close Ulrica’s 
mouth. 

‘ Hush ! That is a word I don’t understand. Why need 
any of us be strangers to the other ? ’ 

‘ But,’ persisted Ulrica, ‘ I am nothing to you, you know 
nothing of me, and yet from the moment I set eyes on you 
I felt that you had guessed half my secret.’ 

Mrs. Meades shook her head. ‘ The guessing is easy 
enough, if only I could help you, my poor child! ’ 

‘ You have helped me already ; let me only sit here and 
talk to you and look at you ; I cannot explain how it is, 
but you rest me and you cool me — and I am so tired, oh, 
my God, and the pain in my heart is so hot ! ’ 

And thus it came about that while far away in the West 
End carriage after carriage rolled up to the door of 
Countess Eldringen’s mansion only to be met with the in- 
formation that she was not at home, and while even Mrs. 
Byrd was racking her brain as to whither her charge could 
have taken herself, the missing heiress was quietly en- 
sconced at No. 8 of Cheesley Villas, sitting on a sofa that 
was covered with the very cheapest of cretonnes, and drink- 
ing two-shilling tea out of a slightly chipped teacup. 

Sometimes the illusion of last night would come over 
Ulrica again, and it would seem to be Pater Sepp to whom 
she was speaking. Surely this old woman and that old man 
had been fashioned of the same stuff, only that of the two 
she was the richer by those quick instincts of a woman’s 
nature, those refinements of an educated mind which the 
man and the peasant had necessarily lacked. In the catho- 
licity of their sympathies they were alike, but hers was that 
wider range of vision which the woman who has been a 
wife and a mother cannot fail to have gained in the school 
of life. She might have been the female complement of 
Pater Sepp, ‘ the one half of him,’ as Ulrica said to herself, 
with something between a smile and a sigh. 

When the whole of the story had been told, there was a 
long silence in the room. 


348 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

‘Tell me/ said Ulrica, with her chin resting on her 
clasped hands and her eyes on the pattern of the shabby 
carpet, ‘ is there anything I could live for ? Is not dying 
the next best thing to being happy ?’ 

‘No, I do not think so,’ said Mrs. Meades meditatively. 

‘ What is, then ? Have you any other recipe for making 
life possible ? ’ 

Mrs. Meades moved restlessly and began to smooth out 
the front breadth of her skirt. 

‘There is always the chance of making other people 
happy,’ she suggested, almost shamefacedly. ‘ I don’t like 
bothering people with my advice, and I don’t think that old 
women have any right to preach to young ones just because 
they happen to have been born forty years earlier, but — ’ 
and her voice dropped almost to a whisper — ‘ there is so 
much misery in the world, and you have so much money.’ 

Ulrica looked up with great, startled eyes. The words 
brought back to her mind other words spoken by herself, in 
what seemed to her an immeasurably distant past. Long- 
buried thoughts stirred again and rose out of the grave in 
which negligence, forgetfulness, and the hurry and cares of 
the life she had led for months past had cast them. The 
very first conversation she had had with Gilbert in the forest 
returned to her memory. The money had been his then, 
not hers ; but it was she who had so severely condemned 
the rich who lay their hands in their laps and allow the 
good things of the earth to come to them unasked ; it was 
she who had attempted to spur his failing ambition in the 
cause of philanthropy. What had become of her own 
ambition now ? 

Then all at once, as in a vision, a picture sprung up be- 
fore the eye of her fancy — a dark, hideous picture, full of 
the agonies of starvation and of the gloom of poverty- 
stricken dirt. How was it that he had called it, that un- 
happy street, the abode of misery from which the possessors 
of the Nevyll fortune drew a not inconsiderable portion of 
their yearly income ? Not once since she had breathed 
London air had the ghastly vision of Dark Street arisen to 
dim her enjoyment of the hour. 

She made no answer to Mrs. Meades’ last remark, but. 


CHEESLEY VILLAS. 


349 


having sat for some minutes plunged in deep thought, she 
got suddenly to her feet and began to look about her for 
her parasol. An irrepressible desire for immediate action 
had come over her. 

‘ Have I frightened you away ? ’ asked Mrs. Meades 
anxiously. ‘ I didn’t mean to give you a sermon, I really 
didn’t ; it’s a thing I never do, I only meant — ’ 

‘You have given me something much better than a ser- 
mon,’ said Ulrica, drawing a deep breath ; ‘ you have given 
me back my belief in human nature. The world can’t be 
quite bad, after all, when there are people like you in it. 

Then, just after turning to go, she stooped and kissed 
the soft, withered cheek of the little old lady. 

Among the many curious problems of life not the least 
curious is the consideration of how there are lives that run 
side by side for years without ever touching, and how there 
are others which, starting from points which seem to lie 
world-wide asunder, come to cross each other at some 
period, perhaps only for one brief moment, yet often bear- 
ing away from that passing contact an impression that is 
never to die. Until yesterday Ulrica had never seen the 
woman to whom she had opened her heart, possibly she 
might never see her again, she knew nothing of her, scarcely 
even who she was; yet that afternoon spent in No. 8 of 
Cheesley Villas would always remain a landmark in her 
life. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

DARK STREET. 

It was too late to do anything that day, despite the im- 
pulse that was pushing her to action. Ulrica, on leaving 
No. 8, was forced to recognise this. The expedition to 
Dark Street, which she had resolved on already as the first 
obvious thing to do, must necessarily be postponed till to- 
morrow. When next day came she had to wait till the 
afternoon for the execution of her project, for it was not 


350 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


till then that Mrs. Byrd could conveniently be got rid of, 
and Ulrica felt a strange reluctance to confide in her talka- 
tive chaperon. That lady having at length started on a 
shopping expedition, Ulrica lost no further time in having 
a hansom called. 

Her difficulty began the moment she left her own door. 
She had given the preference to the hansom partly because 
she wished to excite as little notice as possible, and partly 
because she surmised that the hansom driver would be 
more intimate with the topography of the East End of 
London than the respectable old family coachman was 
likely to be. But even the hansom driver looked baffled 
when told to drive to Dark Street. A London cabby is 
not easy to baffle, and is most reluctant to acknowledge 
that he is baffled; but, having repeatedly searched his 
memory, this particular cabby was compelled to acknowl- 
edge that, not to put too fine a point upon the matter, he 
was blessed if he knew where Dark Street was. 

‘ It is somewhere in the East End, that is all I know,’ 
said Ulrica impatiently. ‘ Drive in that direction, and you 
can ask your way further on.’ 

‘ Somewhere in the Heast Hend, and that’s all she 
knows,’ repeated cabby to himself as he reflectively turned 
his horse ; ‘ and she all by herself, and that swell — well, this 
is a rummy go.’ 

They had only just got into motion when another han- 
som, coming from the opposite direction, passed them close. 
Ulrica just saw its occupant bending forward quickly with 
his face towards her, but she had not time to recognise 
Mr. Rockingham. 

Mr. Rockingham, however, had caught a glimpse of her 
face, and after a movement of disappointment and a short 
moment of hesitation, he directed his driver to follow the 
first hansom. Yesterday he had been disappointed in the 
same way, having been one of the visitors met with the in- 
formation that the Countess was not at home. To the 
others this might appear a matter of small moment, but for 
him the question of finding Ulrica at home or not at home 
was fast becoming a serious one, and this for the simple 
reason that there remained only three days of his leave. 


DARK STREET. 


351 


By calling a little after tea-time he had hoped to secure 
the interview he wanted, and seeing himself disappointed 
in this, and being a man of a decided turn of mind, he 
immediately determined to' follow her, on the chance of 
yet gaining the wished-for opportunity. 

It could not well be shopping, thought Mr. Rocking- 
ham, as, after both Bond Street and Regent Street had 
been crossed, the hansom still held on its eastward di- 
rection. It must be a call, though he could not imagine 
on whom ; could she possibly have business in the city ? 
They were in the very thick of the Strand by this time, and 
Mr. Rockingham, not willing to trust to his driver’s eyes 
alone, endeavoured to make assurance doubly sure by sit- 
ting well forward and keeping his gaze nailed to the han- 
som in advance. The precaution, however, was superflu- 
ous, for this cabby had likewise had a glimpse of the other 
cabby’s fare, and being of a youthful and enterprising turn 
of mind himself, nothing seemed to him more natural than 
that a swell with such a magnificent carnation in his but- 
tonhole, and so obviously decked out for conquest, should 
be unwilling to lose sight of that ‘ real beauty ’ on ahead. 
So settling himself well in his seat and touching up his will- 
ing chestnut, he prepared to show what a London cabby 
can do. 

In and out of the monstrous labyrinth of vehicles of 
every description did he wind, not only with the wisdom 
but also with the sinuosity of the serpent, allowing no 
stoppage to baffle him and no intervening obstacles to 
confuse his vision. They were still hot on the scent when 
Cannon Street was reached. ‘ Can she be leaving town ? ’ 
thought Mr. Rockingham, for the theory of ‘ business ’ was 
becoming every moment more unlikely. But the station 
was passed, and the word was still eastward and ever 
eastward. Not more than a hundred yards beyond the 
station there was a pull-up. Mr. Rockingham leant out 
eagerly. 

‘ Not yet, sir,’ came from the sympathetic driver, ^ it’s 
axin’ of his way.’ In another minute they were off again, 
heading straight for Whitechapel. Mr. Rockingham leant 
back with a puzzled look on his face. Of course an am- 

23 


352 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

bassador does not, even in his most private thoughts, use 
such expressions as a ‘ rummy go,’ but in point of fact the 
whole thing appeared to him quite as mysterious as it had 
appeared to Ulrica’s driver. 

At the entrance to the High Street the second pull-up 
occurred. It was a policeman who was being interrogated 
this time. In another minute they had left the main line 
and had plunged into a maze of narrow streets. 

Ulrica, with ever-growing impatience, peered out of each 
window alternately. Was there no end at all to this terrible 
London ? Corner after corner was turned, street after street 
was crossed, each one more squalid and more abandoned- 
looking than the last ; their pace grew slower and slower, 
either because the driver was looking out for the names of 
the streets or because he did not feel keen about going on. 

‘ What is it ? ’ asked Ulrica, as they once more came to 
a standstill. ‘Are we there at last ? ’ 

‘ Not quite, lady, we must be close, but — ’ 

‘ But what ? ’ 

‘ Aren’t you a bit afraid ? They’re a terrible looking lot 
all round here; knock you down and be off with your 
purse as soon as look at you. Are you quite sartin ye’ve 
got to get there to-day, lady ? ’ 

‘Yes, I am quite certain. Drive on, and make haste.’ 

The next time the cabman drew up, he said, ‘ Here you 
are,’ and without further remark sulkily lit his pipe. It 
was as much as though he had said, ‘ and I hope you like 
it now that you are here.’ 

Ulrica on descending found herself in a narrow, wretch- 
edly paved street of which one side was almost entirely 
taken up by the blank wall of a factory, while opposite to 
it a public-house of the lowest description displayed its 
blistered signboard. She looked about her doubtfully; 
there were few people visible in the almost deserted street. 
A woman who was staggering out of the public-house with a 
mug in her hand, and to whom she addressed herself, stared 
at her with the vacant gaze of semi-drunkenness. 

‘ It’ll be the coiurts ye’re after,’ she managed to utter, 
waving her mug towards a low archway under the dilapi- 
dated house which stood beside the public-house. 


DARK STREET. 


353 


Ulrica, without further hesitation, turned and passed under 
the arch. It proved to be the entrance to a court or so- 
called alley, about ten feet in width, with tall, shallow, 
many-windowed, damp-streaked houses on each side — one 
of many of its kind, for Dark Street consisted in reality of 
a great block of houses, which had originally been a hollow 
square containing either gardens or yards, the ground of 
which, however, had been gradually built closely over as 
space grew more valuable — a perfect maze within a maze. 
The particular court into which Ulrica chanced was a fair 
specimen of its fellows. Once upon a time it had been 
paved, but stone after stone had been broken up until the 
whole was riddled with holes, which on this warm summer 
day were simply reservoirs of dust, but in which the water 
must necessarily stand in great puddles after every shower. 
Despite the limited space between the houses, the inhabi- 
tants were evidently of opinion that they still had more 
room than they required, for they had choked it up still 
further with such things as broken wheelbarrows, old tim- 
ber, and rubbish of every description. Out of some win- 
dows linen had been hung to dry, while almost every third 
or fourth pane was smashed, the gap being sometimes filled 
up with a bundle of rags thrust into the vacant square. 
At the far end of the court one or two people were loung- 
ing at the doors, and close to the entrance a small boy in 
rags, with a shrunken, haggard face, was revelling in the 
dust-bin, in which he had plunged both his meagre arms. 

‘ Can you tell me whom these houses belong to ? ’ asked 
Ulrica of the lad, since he was the nearest person at hand. 
She asked it with a beating heart, having already begun to 
dread the answer. 

He looked up at her with his bead-like eyes staring out 
of his old-man’s face, but evidently was too astonished to 
answer. Clutching a piece of stale fish he had just dis- 
covered in the dust-bin, he scuttled away with his prize 
into the nearest doorway, like a rat into its hole. 

Ulrica turned resolutely the same way, determined to 
know the worst at once. The first thing she experienced 
on plunging into the dark, yawning passage-way was an 
almost intolerable sense of suffocation. The air in the 


354 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


court had been intensely close, but it was purity itself com- 
pared to the foul atmosphere which met her here. Though 
it was still broad daylight outside, it was here so dark that 
Ulrica only just saved herself from stumbling headlong 
down a flight of stone steps. She felt for the bannister ; 
there was none — it had been broken away long ago, burnt 
as fire-wood, most likely. Steadying herself by the wall on 
the other side, she made her way down the broken steps, 
rounded by the long-hardened mud upon them. Beside 
her the plaster rattled down with a hollow, startling sound. 
Was it indeed possible that human beings lived down 
there ? That they breathed this air habitually ? 

At the bottom of the stairs she came upon a door, and 
having knocked and knocked again in vain, she opened it, 
or rather pushed it open, for there was no vestige either of 
handle or lock remaining. In one comer of the under- 
ground kitchen a black mass was lying, barely discernible in 
the dim light. The furniture of this kitchen consisted of 
two hampers, round one of which, turned bottom upper- 
most and serving as table, seven or eight peaky children 
were grouped. 

' Is there any one here ? ’ asked Ulrica, looking towards 
the black mass. It stirred and partially sat up. 

‘What’s it next?’ growled a tipsily drowsy voice. ‘Ye 
haven’t come for the rent, have ye ? ’Tain’t Monday night.’ 

‘ No, I haven’t come for the rent. I want to know whom 
these houses belong to. Can you tell me ? ’ 

‘ Lord knows — some ’owling swell, no doubt,’ and the 
woman fell back again like a sack into her former pros- 
trate position. It was nothing but the idea of the rent 
which could have succeeded in rousing her even for that 
instant. 

Ulrica turned and fled up the stairs again ; but it was 
only to mount still higher and hastily to examine the rest 
of the house. Her head was beginning to swim. She had 
thought that she had known poverty before ; misery and 
starvation were things with which she had believed herself 
intimate ; but never had she pictured to herself such horror 
as this. What was the wretchedness of the poorest peasant 
at Glockenau compared to this abyss of squalor? Yet she 


DARK STREET. 


355 


forced herself to push forward. The upper staircases were 
not much better lighted than the lower one had been, 
owing to the windows being plastered over thickly with 
cobwebs of several years’ standing ; every now and then 
Ulrica’s foot slipped upon some carrot or potato paring 
which she had failed to observe. Here also most of the 
bannisters were gone. Door after door was knocked at 
and opened, sometimes disclosing an empty room with a 
few scattered articles on the floor ; more often the dilapi- 
dated hole would be occupied by some of the most terrible 
specimens of humanity upon whom Ulrica had ever set 
eyes. All the men that were sober enough were still out 
at their work, which — if it was not pocket-picking — was 
generally that of a costermonger or a scavenger, and it was 
to this circumstance alone that Ulrica owed the compara- 
tive immunity with which she was able to carry through 
her mad expedition, for very few of the abandoned 
wretches were in a condition even to lift their heads from 
their pillows of straw or rags. And what terrible heads 
there were reared in the dark corners. What glimpses of 
blood-shot eyes and swollen features! It was like hurry- 
ing through a gallery in which one horrible picture crowded 
the other out of sight. In that breathless half-hour she 
tinned red and pale in each minute — red with shame at the 
sights which met her eyes, pale with the disgust and fear 
awakened by the awful words that fell upon her ear. 

From an old woman lying in bed all alone in an attic 
room she at length got the information she wanted, or 
rather the information of that which she already knew. 
Yes, these courts were part of the Nevyll property; she 
had never seen the person to whom they belonged, but she 
believed he was a baronet. This old woman, who was 
evidently slowly dying, presented a strange contrast to her 
surroundings. The sheets between which she lay were the 
first clean things Ulrica had seen since she entered the 
house. The wretched room itself showed signs of care 
which spoke of an almost superhuman love of order, for it 
truly required to be that to have survived in such a place : 
the broken grate had been bound up with bits of wire ; the 
tattered wall-paper patched with strips of printed matter ; 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


356 

the one whole and the two broken mugs, which apparently 
formed the whole stock of crockery, were neatly ranged 
on a shelf against the wall. Altogether the room and the 
woman were like a solitary scrap of decency which some 
caprice of Fate had patched on to the rest of the disrepu- 
table fabric. 

‘ I knew the baronet you speak of,’ said Ulrica in answer 
to her remark, as she sat down wearily on the wooden stool 
which was the only seat in the room, for her knees were 
now so trembling with excitement and fatigue that she 
could no longer stand. 

‘You know him? O lor’, miss,’ quavered the dying 
woman, ‘ if you’re a friend of his, you might get him to do 
the one thing that my heart’s still set upon in this world. 
Perhaps he might think me exacting, but if you’re a friend 
of his — ’ 

‘ What is it you want done ? ’ 

She looked down and picked nervously at her patch-work 
coverlet. ‘ You see, miss. I’m dying — I don’t myself expect 
to see this day fortnight’s sun, and that man alongside do 
beat his wife so awful. Do you think it would be over- 
exacting if I asked to be moved to another room where I 
couldn’t hear her scream? Maybe the gentleman might 
think me a bit particular, but it’s just on account of having 
the last fortnight quiet. The door there, for instance, it 
w^as with her head that he drove that panel in the other 
night, and of course I hear things plainer than ever now 
through the hole. I don’t mind the baby’s crying, nor yet 
when Mrs. O’Fadge there at the other side comes home 
drunk and smashes up her tables and chairs ; but it’s that 
woman’s screams. Do you think anything can be done 
about having me moved ? Do you think it’s asking too 
much ? ’ and she raised her haggard, wistful eyes to Ulrica’s 
face. 

‘ No, I don’t think it is asking too much,’ said Ulrica, 
with a somewhat grim smile. 

‘ And you will speak to the gentleman about it ? ’ 

‘ I can’t do that, he is dead.’ Then upon some impulse 
she added : ‘He died last year ; I am his cousin, the houses 
belong to me now.’ 


DARK STREET. 


357 


*To you? O lor’, miss, and me speaking so free. But 
God bless your pretty face, I believe you’ll do it for me.’ 

' And me, if you plaze ? What’s to be done for me ? ’ 
said a thick voice behind Ulrica. Turning her head 
sharply, she became aware of a gaunt giantess standing in 
the doorway of the room which the sick woman in the bed 
had indicated as belonging to ‘ Mrs. O’Fadge.’ 

‘ What’s to be done for me, I ask ye ? The houses are 
yourn, are they ? Then shure it’s ye as’ll have to mend my 
winders and stop up the holes in the wall, my foine lady. 
I won’t be put off any longer ; look here, my name’s 
Maroia O’Fadge, and I swear by all the foires in hell that 
ye sha’n’t go down the staircase till ye’ve promised to put 
things straight. Look here, I say,’ and seizing Ulrica by 
the wrist with the grip of a female Hercules, she dragged 
her into the next room. Her white hair was hanging 
tangled on her shoulders, and her dress fell apart upon her 
withered bosom. ‘ Indade, it’s a pretty place for a 
Christian Oirish woman as pays two and saix a week to live 
in, hi ? Och, never ye be afeard, me deary, it’s not near 
so bad when the sun’s a-shoinin’ as it is in the dark when 
the moice are scampering after each ither. D’ye see that 
rotten place in the floor ? That’s where the watter drips 
through in the winther-toime. And that hole in the wall, 
d’ye see it ? That’s where the wind and the rain comes 
through both summer and winter aloike. There, ye can 
feel it for yerself. Come along, me honey ; shure ye have 
more of these illigent gloves at home, so never ye moind if 
these get sthained a bit,’ and still holding Ulrica by the 
wrist, she forced her arm into a great crooked crack in the 
wall, which in point of fact went right through to the open 
air. ' Never moind that heap in the khorner, it’s only me 
boy who’s down with the faver. Shure it’s strange that 
we should have such-loike things as faver and such a foine 
venthilation as we’re blessed with up here, eh ? ’ and with 
a laugh of a jackal she pointed to the gaping wall. 'Ah, 
the houses belong to ye, do they ? Bless yer pretty face, 
indade! It’s more loike cursin’ that I feels.’ 

With a tremendous effort Ulrica wrenched herself free 
of the fingers which lay like a vice round her wrist, and 


358 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


escaped into the passage panting and pale. She had seen 
enough for to-day ; she had seen more than she wanted. 

It was almost at a run that she reached the open air. 
But immediately she was forced to slacken her pace. It 
was close to sunset now, and within the last half-hour the 
narrow court had become thronged. All day long the sun 
had been glaring down upon the houses until they had be- 
come unbearable. One by one the lodgers had been driven 
out, and now, on every doorstep, hot, dirty women were 
sitting and quarrelling ; while hot, dirty children crawled 
over the yet hotter stones. Shrill scoldings and frightful 
oaths echoed back from wall to wall, and everybody looked 
as though they had placed themselves there for the sole 
purpose of being in everybody else’s way. All this at the 
bottom of what might have been a well of stones, while 
only far, far above the quarrelsome heads the last rays of 
the setting sun caught the side of a red chimney and for a 
brief moment made it almost beautiful. 

Ulrica had scarcely issued from the doorway, stood still 
and looked around her with a shiver of disgust. The 
place was infinitely more dreary and depressing now with 
its overflowing life than it had been in its deserted state. 
The dust of the long summer day mingled with the gin- and 
brandy-tainted breaths combined to make the atmosphere 
well-nigh stupefying. Ulrica thought of her ice-feast, of 
the sums of money spent upon the artificial coolness of those 
few hours, and unconsciously she hung her head. Then, 
meeting the astonished gaze of one of the crawling children, 
she half turned backwards with the instinctive wish to remain 
unnoticed. But it was too late. Already other eyes were 
turned her way ; in the next minute curious faces began to 
gather round her ; children plucked at her gown and whined 
for pennies, the women exchanged audible comments upon 
her hat and upon her parasol, and fixed greedy eyes on the 
silver handle of her parasol. Presently a whisper flew like 
wildfire round the court, — from the attic downwards the re- 
port had spread that the proprietress of the houses was some- 
where about. Immediately every doorstep was abandoned, 
and Ulrica found herself in the centre of an ever-thickening 
crowd. Men’s faces appeared among the women’s, for it 


DARK STREET. 


359 


was the hour of home-coming ; old hags bent crooked came 
hobbling upon sticks out of the doorways, blinking their 
eyes in the daylight, like some hideous sort of night-birds 
that are used to live in the darkness. The clamour increased 
tenfold. Every long-stored-up grievance was dragged 
noisily to the light. Some one whimpered for a reduction 
of rent, some one else shrieked for a new grate. A 
man’s voice threateningly demanded something to drink 
her health in, and on the spot all grievances were forgotten 
and ‘ somethin’ to drink yer ’ealth in ’ became the general 
cry. 

With pale face and set teeth Ulrica looked around her 
for some means of escape. Not until this moment had 
she grasped the extent of her own temerity. The people 
were pressing ever closer upon her, the voices were grow- 
ing more threatening, she could feel that some one had hold 
of her parasol, a stale cabbage-stalk hit her on the 
shoulder. 

‘ Cowards ! * she flamed out, with flashing eyes, but in the 
same moment already there was a swaying in the crowd, 
and all at once Mr. Rockingham, appearing from she knew 
not where, had forced his way through by the sheer 
strength of his elbows, and, having reached her side, faced 
round towards the rabble. 

‘ Out of the way,’ he shouted, squaring his fists. ‘ There’s 
a policeman just round that corner. He’ll come if I 
whistle, and I give you my word that I’ll whistle unless 
you let the lady pass this very minute.’ 

There was a moment of hesitation, and then the people 
began to move slowly and sulkily aside. 

‘ Thank you, oh, thank you,’ whispered Ulrica, clinging 
to Mr. Rockingham’s arm. She had taken hold of it with- 
out being quite aware of what she was doing. Without his 
help she could scarcely have walked steadily to the street. 

‘ May I drive with you ? ’ he asked, when he had helped 
her into his own hansom. 

‘ Certainly,’ said Ulrica, with nervous eagerness. * Oh, 
you must drive with me, I cannot let you go.’ 

Mr. Rockingham stepped in after her, suppressing a smile 
of keen satisfaction. 


360 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

‘ Do you know that that was an insane thing to do ? ’ he 
presently remarked. 

‘ I know ; but it had to be done.’ 

He relapsed into thoughtful silence. At the bottom of 
his heart he was very much shocked at the whole proceed- 
ing, for to see the conveftances disregarded was always a 
very painful thing to him ; but, after all, nothing could have 
been luckier for him than the way the afternoon had shaped 
itself. If only the hansom had not rattled so abominably 
he would undoubtedly have struck his blow now while the 
iron of her gratitude was yet hot ; but a shouted proposal 
had many drawbacks to it, and more especially so when 
the person into whose ears it has to be shouted is lying 
back with closed eyes, and a great mental lassitude ex- 
pressed in every line of her face and figure. There was 
nothing to do but to possess his soul in patience for yet 
another day. 

‘ Shall I find you at home to-morrow ? ’ he inquired, as, 
after a long and almost silent drive, they drew up before 
the house in Park Lane. 

‘To-morrow?’ she said, awaking as though out of a 
dream. ‘ Yes, of course you will find me at home. I shall 
try and thank you to-morrow ; to-day I am too tired even 
to think.’ 

She gave him her hand as they stood on the pavement, 
straight under the draWing-room windows, then, entering 
the house, she slowly mounted the stairs. 

‘ I must get away, I must rest,’ she kept saying to her- 
self, as she dragged her heavy feet upward. 

Until to-day the strain of the last two months seemed to 
have left her physical strength untouched ; now, all at once, 
the measure showed itself to be full. A desperate lassitude, 
bodily and mental, had seized upon her. In a confused 
way she felt that the evil that waited to be grappled with 
was one of too deep-rooted a sort to be lightly attacked. 
She must get to some place where she could order her 
thoughts and gather her strength for the work. J ust now 
she felt too sick at heart to form even a plan. But away 
from here — she certainly must go away. 

So taken up was she with the idea in her mind, that it 


DARK STREET. 


361 


was only when she reached the top of the stairs that she 
noticed Charlotte standing before the drawing-room door, 
with the train of her tea-gown gathered in one hand and 
her eyes fixed full on the advancing figure. Her face was 
colourless and her lips trembling. Though she did not speak 
immediately, it was so evident that she had something to 
say that Ulrica instinctively stood still. 

Charlotte had been looking terribly ill for the last few 
days, having caught cold at the ice-ball, but seen thus in 
the gathering dusk, the effect was positively ghostly. 

' I saw you,’ she panted in a whisper, ‘ I saw you from 
the window.’ 

‘ I daresay you did,’ said Ulrica indifferently ; ' what of 
that ? ’ 

‘ It is of no use saying he was not there, I saw you both, 
I tell you.’ 

‘ I suppose you are talking of Mr. Rockingham ? ’ 

‘ Do you deny that you came back with him now in that 
cab, alone ? ’ 

^ No, I haven’t the smallest intention of denying that. 
Do let me pass, like a good creature ; it is really all I can 
do to reach my room.’ 

Instead of letting her pass, Charlotte bent forward, and, 
trembling with excitement, peered into Ulrica’s face. 

‘ And you think he will marry you ? ’ she said almost in 
her ear, yet with a nervous intensity that was more start- 
ling than the loudest tone could have been. ‘ Do you 
think he will marry you f I tell you he will not. I will 
prevent him, I — I, do you hear? I can do it. He shall 
not marry you; rather than that — ’ she broke off and 
looked round her with a nervous shiver, as though not cer- 
tain of what she had said, then, abruptly turning, disap- 
peared through the door alongside, leaving the passage 
free. 

Ulrica, having stood for a minute longer on the landing, 
shrugged her shoulders and pursued her way to her room. 

There was a letter with the Morton postmark lying on 
her toilet-table. As she glanced through its contents a 
little of the fatigue left her face and a little interest came 
into it. Having laid down the paper, she rang for her maid. 


362 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

‘ Pack up my things immediately,’ was the order she gave, 
‘ and tell Brownley to look out a train. I am going down 
to Morton to-morrow morning.’ 

‘ For good, mees ? ’ the astonished maid could not refrain 
from gasping. 

‘ Yes, for good. Don’t lose any time.’ 

‘ But the dinner-pardi to-morrow, mees, and the dance 
the day after, and — ’ 

‘ Do as I tell you,’ said Ulrica imperiously, whereupon 
Mademoiselle Seraphine, feeling very much shaken, had 
no choice but to withdraw. 

Ulrica took up the letter again and read it through more 
attentively. It was from Mr. Bolt, the engineer, and con- 
tained the brief announcement that he hoped to have the 
last gap in the sea-bank filled up on the following day. 
‘ As you are aware from' my last communication,’ he wrote 
in his stiff, ungainly hand, ^ we attacked the gaps five days 
ago. In sending you this second announcement I am 
only obeying your express orders ; I do not suppose it likely 
that you should feel inclined to leave town just now.’ 

‘ The very thing I am inclined to do,’ laughed Ulrica to 
herself with reviving courage. That first communication 
which Mr. Bolt spoke of had reached her only to be tossed 
aside in the hurry of more pressing matters, but this second 
reminder could not have come more entirely in the nick of 
time. At least it gave a distinct and immediate shape to 
that wish to get out of London which had come upon her 
with the suddenness and intensity of a craze. Of course, 
that was the very thing ; the ' marsh ’ with its fresh, salt air 
was the very place to give her back her strength and to 
blow the vapours of London from her brain. 

‘To-morrow — I shall be there to-morrow,’ she said to 
herself as she laid her head on the pillow that night. 

Just about the same time Mr. Rockingham, in his club, 
was also repeating to himself that same word — ‘to-mor- 
row.’ 

And this was the third ‘ to-morrow ’ on which he had re- 
solved to put his fate to the touch. 


‘ IT IS WELL TO BE OFF WITH THE OLD LOVE.’ 363 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

‘it is well to be off WITH THE OLD LOVE.’ 

‘To-morrow!’ The word was still in Mr. Rocking- 
ham’s mind when he awoke in the morning, and not until 
he had rubbed the sleep out of his eyes did he realise that 
the to-morrow had become a to-day. 

This time, surely, his opportunity could not possibly 
escape him. He dressed and breakfasted leisurely, secure 
in the conviction that he had an appointment with Ulrica. 
But, strange to say, neither the toilet nor the breakfast 
was a success. His studs had a curious knack this morn- 
ing of slipping from between his fingers just as he thought 
he had got them fixed, and the coffee was strangely taste- 
less. Surely it could not be that he was — agitated ? 

All night long he had seen her in his dreams as he had 
seen her yesterday in the midst of the rabble — how beauti- 
ful she had looked, like a tigress at bay. 

‘This is childish!’ said Mr. Rockingham suddenly, 
aloud, with a stamp of his foot. ‘ Of course she is beauti- 
ful, tant mieux; but supposing her hair were carrotty and 
her eyes green, I should be going to Park Lane just the 
same, of course.’ 

He gazed reflectively into the depths of his coffee-cup. 
Mr. Rockingham was not quite satisfied with himself to- 
day. He was almost a little puzzled. He could not re- 
member ever having felt exactly like this before, not even 
on that summer’s day long ago when Charlotte had met 
him, blushing, among the flowers in his father’s garden. 
Of course he was marrying Ulrica for her money alone ; 
to admit anything else would have been too glaringly in- 
consistent with all his principles. 

The puzzled look was still on his face when, a little be- 
fore twelve, he sallied forth. 

Having purchased a carnation, which at least outshone 
its wasted brother of yesterday, he strolled down St. James’s 


364 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

Street, critically eying the vacant hansoms, and did not 
raise his stick until he caught sight of a specimen which 
suited him in every point, dark green cloth. India-rubber 
cased wheels, all the newest improvements of the day — in 
one word, the vehicle for the occasion. 

It was just on the stroke of midday when he stepped 
out of this elegant conveyance and rang the bell at Count- 
ess Eldrin gen’s door. 

The first thing that gave him a shock was the row of 
open windows on the first floor. To be sure it was a mag- 
nificent day, but yet people do not generally do their ven- 
tilation on quite such a wholesale system. The next thing 
that sent a shiver down his back was the look of the hall 
when the door was opened. The floor was bare of rugs, 
and in one corner there lay a perfect mound of brown 
Holland wrappers, while footmen in shirt-sleeves and house- 
maids in aprons that evidently meant business were moving 
backwards and forwards across the scene. Through the 
door of the adjoining dining-room, that dining-room in 
which he had enjoyed so many exquisite meals, Mr. Rock- 
ingham caught sight of nothing but muffled furniture and 
bagged candelabra. 

‘ The Countess is at home, I believe ? ’ he asked, bring- 
ing back his eyes to the face of the man who had opened the 
door, in whom he was astonished to recognise the august 
butler Brownley himself, and whom he was still more as- 
tonished to see in a linen jacket. He asked his question 
assertively, as though he were challenging Brownley to 
deny the Countess’s presence. 

‘ Her ladyship is gone, sir. Her ladyship left town this 
morning.’ 

Mr. Rockingham shifted his exquisitely rolled-up um- 
brella from his left hand to his right and back again, and 
fixed Brownley with a glance as stem as though he sus- 
pected him of complicity in a practical joke. 

‘ The Countess 7nust be at home ; I have an appointment 
with her.’ 

‘ She’s gone, sir,’ said Brownley again, with that sort of 
deadly cheerfulness which kills hope more effectually than 
the most gloomily emphasised assertions. 


^IT IS WELL TO BE OFF WITH THE OLD LOVE.’ 365 

‘ Quite gone ? ’ asked Mr. Rockingham, surprised into 
a temporary touch of imbecility. 

‘ Quite gone, sir. We’re covering up the furniture, and 
I follow to Morton by the night train. If you have any 
message you wish to entrust — ’ and at this moment Brown- 
ley, catching sight of an awkwardly carried ladder that 
had barely shaved a hall mirror, darted off to admonish 
the culprit and protect the threatened object. When he 
returned to the open doorway Mr. Rockingham was still 
standing on the step, pulling perplexedly at his moustache 
and staring at the knob of his umbrella. Brownley cleared 
his throat and gazed at the visitor with a sort of ‘ pray- 
don’t-let-me-hurry-you-but- there - is-no-denying - that - my- 
time-/V-precious ’ look about him. Mr. Rockingham felt it, 
and, after having asked a few more questions, withdrew 
in deep meditation. It must have been some unexpected 
call, of course ; nothing but that could explain her forgetful- 
ness concerning his announced visit. No doubt there 
would be a perfectly satisfactory explanation ready, but 
the mischief was that he could not wait till the satisfactory 
explanation came to him. He would have to leave Eng- 
land on the next day but one, and between this and that 
he must absolutely speak to her — the deduction was as 
easy as a sum in simple addition. 

Mr. Rockingham returned to his lodgings, looked up a 
train, and put a few things into a bag, for the chances 
were that he would spend the night in the country. 

The trains did not happen to suit very well, so that it 
was somewhere between seven and eight o'clock that even- 
ing when he found himself driving up the Morton avenue 
in the solitary station-fly which was always there patiently 
and punctually to meet the London train, and which, to 
its agreeable surprise, picked up a fare about once in three 
months. 

It was to be hoped that they would have done dinner, 
was Mr. Rockingham’s reflection as he gazed out through 
the windows of the fly at the monster boles of the beech 
trees, past which they were jingling at a monotonous jog- 
trot. To be ushered in between an entrh and a roast 
would scarcely be calculated to enhance the romance of 


366 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

the situation. No, he would not allow his presence to be 
made known until the ladies had risen from the table. To 
be discovered as a surprise in the drawing-room would be 
very much more appropriate. 

Having settled this point to his satisfaction, he gave 
himself up to a more critical contemplation of the Morton 
Park than he had ever yet indulged in. It would be 
pleasant to walk under these sweeping branches with Ulrica 
by his side, and he smiled out of the window at the beeches 
and the laurels with something of the patronising benevo- 
lence of the future proprietor. 

Truly it was an enticing picture to dwell upon. Here, 
close at hand, every twig was still distinct, but over the 
distant depths of the glades the first faint veil of dusk was 
softly falling. It had been glaringly hot since morning. 
All day long the trees have stood in sullen immobility 
under the tyranny of the sun, wearing his hot golden 
chains in slavish silence, bowing their heads before his 
power in abject submission. But now a whisper rises up 
there among the crowns of the beeches, those green 
tongues are beginning to wag ; the agitation creeps down- 
wards, and in the next minute the bushes too are talking 
treason. Even the great bracken ferns and even the little 
grasses stir themselves with a shiver and then crouch down 
again fearfully, as though the bare idea of rebelling against 
their master set them all a-trembling. 

‘ Not at home.’ 

When for the fourth time within three days Mr. Rock- 
ingham found himself baffled by this simple formula, his 
supreme equanimity came nearer to forsaking him than it 
had ever yet done. 

‘ Look here, young man,’ he said firmly, * I have just 
come straight from London, and I know that the Countess 
is here. Probably she is at dinner, in which case be so 
good as to show me to the drawing-room.’ 

The somewhat youthful domestic quailed visibly under 
the eye fixed upon him, yet he made no movement towards 
ushering in the guest. 

‘Her ladyship is not at dinner, sir; she dined early, and 
immediately after dinner the ladies went out in the victoria.’ 


‘ IT IS WELL TO BE OFF WITH THE OLD LOVE.’ 367 

‘Went out in the victoria?’ repeated Mr. Rockingham, 
as though he were striving to digest the fact. ‘ Do you 
know where to ? ’ 

‘ I don’t, sir.’ 

‘ Well, show me into the drawing-room all the same,’ 
said Mr. Rockingham, after a moment of stupefied reflec- 
tion. ‘ The ladies will most likely not be out long. The 
Countess expects me,’ he added, by way of encourage- 
ment to the evidently puzzled footman. Visitors at this 
hour were new in his experience. 

In the drawing-room to which he was ushered the shut- 
ters were closed, and lamps were burning softly under 
rose-coloured shades. The newest evening papers lay 
all ready cut open on a basket-table close by a luxurious 
easy-chair. The scent of fresh-cut flowers pervaded the 
air. Mr. Rockingham threw himself into the easy-chair 
and took up one of the papers ; then, after running his eye 
down a column, tossed it aside again and looked about 
him. There was no use in denying any longer that he 
was excited. 

‘ Better take a look around,’ he muttered, almost as 
though he were recalling himself to a duty ; and abandon- 
ing the easy-chair, he went towards the folding-doors which 
stood open, and pushed aside the heavy curtains which 
masked the entrance to the suite of larger drawing-rooms, 
the so-called state rooms, which were seldom made use of. 
The one immediately beyond was the rococo room, all 
flowered brocade and china shepherdesses ; then followed 
the ‘ red room,’ where dead-gold moulding was relieved by 
ruby plush. ‘ Hm,’ mused Mr. Rockingham, as he saun- 
tered slowly onwards. ‘ Some of the pictures could bear 
being rehung, and I am not sure whether that ottoman 
wouldn’t look better in a more prominent position.’ 

Save for the fading daylight which strained in through 
the lowered blinds, both these rooms were unlighted, but 
from between the portieres of the doorway beyond a glim- 
mer as of a candle-light pierced unexpectedly. Mr. Rock- 
ingham, with a movement of surprise, went forward to 
investigate. Was it possible that that puppy of a footman 
had misinformed him after all ? 

24 


368 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

It was the ‘ Venetian room ’ into which he now stepped, 
the largest in the suite, and generally considered the most 
perfect of its kind — a dream of sea-green and crystal. 
Here, also, the blinds were down, but at the far end a 
couple of candles were burning, leaving two thirds of the 
apartment in a mysterious semi-gloom and sending the fan- 
tastic shadow of a big palm sprawling over half the ceiling. 
Seen by this light the ‘Venetian room’ might have been 
some dim sea-cave inhabited by — ah, there was the sea- 
nymph herself ! And Mr. Rockingham made an expectant 
step forward as in the circle of candle-light over there a 
tall white figure rose from a low seat. Another step, and 
then a sudden halt of dismay — oh, horror, it was Charlotte ! 

Never in his life had Mr. Rockingham come so near to 
losing his head as in this moment. His first impulse was 
to turn and fly, and though he controlled himself suffi- 
ciently to remain standing on the spot he had reached, and 
even to incline himself before the lady on whom he had 
intruded, the one question with which his mind was fran- 
tically grappling was how to get out of the room in the 
quickest and least compromising way ; for to make conver- 
sation to his old love while waiting to declare his devo- 
tion to the new one was a situation too unbearable to be 
contemplated for a moment, even by a diplomat. 

The pause lasted no more than half a minute, and it was 
Charlotte who spoke first, in a tone of wondering delight. 

‘ Bas — Mr. Rockingham, you here % ’ and she laid down 
the pile of old songs she had been hstlessly turning over 
and advanced towards the intruder. ‘ They did not tell 
me — I did not know.’ 

Then, with a sharp ring of suspicion in her voice : ‘ What 
is it ? What have you come for ? * 

‘ I came down here because I desire to speak to Count- 
ess Eldringen — on — on — urgent business,’ said Mr. Rock- 
ingham bluntly. He had quickly decided in the interval 
that bluntness would be the kindest thing under the cir- 
cumstances, as well as the most effectual. ‘ But I am told 
she has driven out. I presume, however, that as it is 
almost dark she will soon be back, and in the meantime — ’ 

‘ She will not be back so very soon,’ said Charlotte, almost 


‘ IT IS WELL TO BE OFF WITH THE OLD LOVE.’ 369 

triumphantly. ‘ They have gone to Morton Bank to that 
“ marsh ” she is so mad about, to see the last gap closed up, 
or something. They will work on into the night, till the 
turn of the tide, whenever that is. I dined with them, but 
my courage failed me for the expedition ; my cold is not 
right yet, you know, and the night air is so chilly.’ 

She kept talking on, eagerly yet vaguely, searching his 
face the while with her mistrustful eyes, her fingers playing 
nervously with the white lace of her dinner-dress. 

‘ Morton Bank, did you say ? Thanks,’ said Mr. Rock- 
ingham, in sincere gratitude. ‘ I could not get the infor- 
mation I wanted from the footman. Many thanks,’ and 
with another hasty bow, he turned and attempted to escape. 

‘ What are you going to do ! ’ Charlotte called after him, 
aghast. 

‘ I am going to speak to the Countess at Morton Bank. 
I told you my business was urgent.’ 

He had been forced to face round to answer her ; now 
he resumed his progress towards the door, and had all but 
reached it when his name rung out so suddenly and so 
sharply that he stood still once more, as though struck by 
a knife. 

‘ Basil! ’ 

It was scarcely a word, it was rather a wild, despairing 
cry, so heartrending in the sincerity of its pain that, egotist 
though he was, he felt his heart clutched by an iiTesistible 
pity. 

‘ Basil, you are going there to ask her to be your wife ? ’ 

She had crossed the room to where he stood, stock-still, 
beside the door, a fold of the sea-green portiere between 
his finger and thumb, as he was in the act of dividing it. 
With great, wistful eyes she looked up into his face, the 
muscles about her mouth working convulsively. 

‘Really, Lady Nevyll, I — ’ 

‘Oh, don’t, don’t! I am unhappy enough already. 
Don’t call me by that hateful name. Call me as you used 
to call me, only for this once at least. Tell me the truth 
at last ; don’t play with me any more ; you have been 
trampling on my heart all the summer. This urgent business 
you have with her, it is to ask her to marry you, is it not ? 


370 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

No, don’t tell me,’ and she put her hands over her ears. ‘ I 
could not bear it. But you do want to marry her, do you 
not? ’ 

The rambling harangue had given Mr. Rockingham time 
to rally his wits around him and form a plan of action. 

‘ Well, look here, Charlotte,’ he said, as she paused, boldly 
striking out on the new line on which he had decided, ‘ I 
have no wish at all to keep you in the dark with regard 
to my plans. Between such old friends,’ and he smiled a 
not quite successful smile, ‘ there is no need for secrecy.’ 

He had quite dropped his company tone, and was speak- 
ing now with the ostentatious frankness of the man who is 
yearning to pour out his tale into a sympathetic ear. It 
was rather a desperate experiment, of course, which pre- 
sented itself to his mind. 

‘ I will be quite honest with you ; I do intend to marry 
Countess Eldringen, if she will have me ’ ( the last clause 
tacked on as an after- thought), ‘ and I am on my way to ask 
her this very question. My impending departure forces 
me to hurry the step in this apparently unseemly manner. 
Now, will you not wish your old playmate good luck ? ’ and 
he held out his hand towards her. 

Instead of taking it Charlotte sunk down on a seat and 
burst into a perfect hurricane of sobs. 

‘ Oh, that day! ’ she moaned, through her tears. ‘ I saw 
it all on that day, I knew then it must come to this. The 
day you came to -the Old Hall and she was there — oh, why 
did I ever let you see her! It is all my own doing — every- 
thing was so perfect before then ; oh, I knew it, I knew it! ’ 

Mr. Rockingham was very nearly at his wits’ end ; truly 
his sins had found him out. As he looked down at Char- 
lotte’s thin shoulders heaving with the passion of her tears, 
he could not but feel horribly guilty. The only thing he 
could think of as a means of easing his conscience was to 
let himself down on the seat beside her and attempt to 
draw down one of the hands which she had pressed over 
her eyes. 

‘ Listen to me, Charlotte,’ he said, in as soothing a voice 
as he could command. ‘ Let me explain matters a little — 
will you not listen, Charlotte — Chatty dear?’ (How she 


‘IT IS WELL TO BE OFF WITH THE OLD LOVE.’ 37 1 

shivepd and thrilled at the sound of the childish name!) 
‘ I think I can make you understand if you will listen. We 
always used to understand each other so well in the old 
days. ^ For a long time past I have had the intention of 
marrying again ; my position demands it of me, imperiously 
demands, and my position demands, too, that the wife I 
choose should possess certain — ahem — qualifications, with- 
out which she would be more a hindrance than a help on 
my further career. The life which an ambassador’s wife 
has to lead is a very fatiguing one, full of most exhausting 
social duties ; it follows, therefore, that physical endurance 
— perfect health, in other words — is among the most impor- 
tant of the qualifications to which I have referred.’ 

While he was speaking her sobs had been growing less 
convulsive, and gradually she had abandoned her hand to 
his. Now she looked up suddenly, with a faint ray of hope 
in her eyes. 

‘ I never thought of that ! So that is why you — you 
changed your mind ? For there was a time last year when 
you did think of — I mean when you wanted to revive old 
times ; was there not, Basil 1 ’ 

‘Yes, Charlotte, there was a time when I entertained 
such a hope.’ 

‘ And my wretched health came in the way, — I think I 
am beginning to understand.’ 

Mr. Rockingham gently stroked the white hand he still 
held, and looked straight before him. There had been no 
point of interrogation in her voice, so that he was not 
obliged to answer ; for which small mercy he felt sincerely 
thankful, for he never liked to tell lies except in the ex- 
tremest emergencies. 

‘ I knew you would understand,’ he went on, in that same 
soothing tone, very much the same tone in which he had 
said to her very much the same things on a certain October 
evening about twenty years ago. ‘ Fate has been very un- 
kind to you — to us, Charlotte ; for the second time in our 
lives we are compelled by circumstances to give each other 
up,’ he finished, bungling a little over the conclusion of the 
phrase. ‘ I can only repeat now what I said to you then, 
that as my first marriage was a marriage of (‘onvenarice, so 


372 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

also my second will have to be. Do you quite follow 
what I say ? ’ 

‘ Yes, Basil, I think I see,’ she murmured tremulously. 
‘ It is as hard upon you as upon me, is it not ? I know 
that you have never quite forgotten me,’ and she looked 
into his eyes with a tender question, in which there was 
nevertheless a touch of suspicion. 

‘ It is confoundedly hard upon us both,’ said Mr. Rock- 
ingham emphatically. It was the only convenient thing 
he could say at the moment. The moderation of her tone 
surprised him agreeably. She spoke in profound discour- 
agement and sadness, but the hysterical excitement seemed 
quieted. And yet, despite his sense of relief, he felt aware 
that there was in her manner something which he did not 
understand. 

‘There, that is my old sensible Chatty! Now, then, 
since we are agreed that I must marry, and since we are 
agreed that unhappily your health unfits you for the duties 
of an ambassador’s wife — ’ 

She gave a sudden start and drew her hand out of his 
with a quick, nervous jerk. 

‘ Oh no, I did not mean that,’ she stammered, ‘ I did 
not mean that you should marry me ; was that what I said ? ’ 
and she looked about her with wondering, frightened eyes. 
‘ I quite understand the sort of wife you require to have, 
but only — ’ 

‘ But only what, Charlotte 1 ’ 

‘ Why need it just be /ler ? ’ she burst out, her excitement 
beginning once more to rise. ‘ Why must it just be Ulrica 
Eldringen ? ’ 

‘ What can possibly be your objection to Countess El- 
dringen ? ’ 

Charlotte looked down and began to tear holes in the 
lace of her dinner-dress. 

‘ She is so much too young for you, and then she really 
has very little education ; I am sure she would always be 
doing the most ridiculous things. If only you would not 
be in such a hurry, I am sure I could think of some one 
who would suit you much better. There is Miss Frieze, 
for instance ; she has two millions, at least — ’ 


‘ IT IS WELL TO BE OFF WITH THE OLD LOVE.’ 373 

‘ And one shoulder higher than the other. No, thank 
you, Charlotte.’ 

‘Or one of Lord Fuller’s daughters; they are all very 
well off, and have been so well brought up.’ 

Mr. Rockingham knew Lord Fuller’s daughters by sight, 
and his only reply was a slight shudder. It was most 
obliging of Charlotte to wish to choose a wife for him ; still, 
he was a little at a loss how to account for her anxiety in 
the matter. 

‘ No, no, Charlotte, you are mistaken,’ he said hastily, in 
order to avert all further suggestions of this order. ‘No 
choice could be more suitable than the one I have made. 
Countess Eldringen unites in her person all the qualifica- 
tions I look for in a wife. Her social position is excellent, 
her health is of the most robust, she is wealthy.’ 

‘ And beautiful,’ added Charlotte, narrowly watching his 
face. 

‘ And beautiful,’ repeated Mr. Rockingham, with studied 
carelessness. ‘ At any rate, she has the proper figure for 
an ambassadress.’ 

‘ Has she, really ? ’ said Charlotte, with a delicately 
venomous sneer. ‘ And has it never struck you that other 
people besides you may have found out all these wonderful 
qualities ? How do you know that she has not made her 
choice, just as you have made yours?’ 

She asked it with a glance shot sideways, as keen and as 
intent as the one with which the bird of prey watches for 
its victim, and then she held her breath and waited for the 
result of her experiment. For it was nothing but that. 
Within her own mind she had no shadow of a doubt that 
her all-conquering hero had here conquered once again. It 
was a well-worn and time-honoured feminine ruse in which 
she had taken refuge, but it served its purpose none the less. 

Mr. Rockingham turned a startled face towards his com- 
panion. There had seemed to lie such a curious signifi- 
cance in the tone that he actually paled a little under the 
sunburn of his skin. 

‘ What do you mean % To what are you referring ? Do 
you know anything ? ’ 

‘ I know all that I want to know,’ cried Charlotte, with 


374 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


a sudden burst of passion. ‘ I know that you have lied to 
me, I know that this marriage will not be a mere marriage 
of convena7ice — you love her, Basil, you love her! ’ 

‘ Really, Charlotte — ’ 

‘ You love her, you love her — deny it if you can! ’ 

They were both standing by this time, for Charlotte had 
risen in her excitement, and Mr. Rockingham could do no 
less than follow her example. 

‘ Deny it ! ’ she almost shrieked, her hand on his arm, 
her eyes wildly searching his face. 

‘ I have no wish to deny it,’ said Mr. Rockingham coldly, 
and it was as he spoke that he for the first time admitted 
the truth to himself. 

In one instant the whole man had undergone a change. 
He had frozen up suddenly. As long as she was tractable 
he had been willing to spare her ; but since she was be- 
coming inconvenient he would not waste more trouble over 
her. It was to restore her peace of mind that he had 
made the sacrifice of prevaricating a little in the conversa- 
tion that was past ; and it had really been a sacrifice, for 
this man was as straight as he was narrow — ^he would not 
make any further concession in the way of a direct lie. 

For a few seconds after he had spoken, Charlotte re- 
mained staring at him blankly. Despite her vehement as- 
sertion, she did not seem quite to believe her ears. 

‘ And you say this to me ? ’ she asked, in a low, almost 
awe-struck tone. 

‘To any one who asks me.’ 

Then her passion broke bounds, but without tears this 
time, for the pitch of excitement at which tears are possible 
had already been passed. 

‘ But to me, to me^ Basil ! Think a little what you are 
saying! Have you forgotten who I am? Have you for- 
gotten that I am that same Charlotte who was your first, 
your only love — yes, your only love till now? No, no, I 
cannot believe it, you have not forgotten me quite, you do 
love still, not as I love you, of course, as I have loved you 
since I can remember — that is not to be expected ; but I 
have been first in your heart till now, and I must remain first, 
Basil, I must! You only mean that you cannot marry me 


‘IT IS WELL TO BE OFF WITH THE OLD LOVE.’ 375 

because of my unhappy health; is not that what you 
mean ? ’ 

‘ I have told you my meaning plainly enough.’ 

‘ No, not plainly, not plainly enough yet ; I do not seem 
able to understand. I can bear to give you up, I bore it 
once before, but I remain first in your heart. Basil, 
I love you too well! ’ 

‘ Aye, so well that you would wish to see me condemned 
to a loveless marriage for the second time in my life. 
Commend me to the love of woman!’ 

She looked at him aghast, with bloodless lips and hag- 
gard eyes. Had he become iron within the last two 
minutes ? It was not two minutes yet since he had still 
yielded, or seemed to yield, to her touch. 

‘ Do you mean that you doubt my love 1 Do you re- 
proach me with the sacrifice I made, the sacrifice which 
you yourself demanded of me ? Oh, I must say it at last, 
I have wanted to say it so often, so often — Basil, that sacri- 
fice has been the mistake of my life. I was mad when I 
made it ; I have never been happy for one moment since. 
I love riches, and I love position, but these twenty years 
have taught me that I do not love them so well as I love 
yotz/ I hate poverty, and I hate pinching, but they are 
nothing to the wretchedness of living vfiihont you. If we 
were sitting now in the beech-grove at home as we sat 
then — O Basil, do you remember ? — and if you spoke to 
me as you spoke then, do you imagine I would give you 
the same answer? Ha, ha! I have leamt my lesson 
since then. I should not listen to your arguments ; I should 
cling to you in spite of everything, in spite of the whole 
world, in spite of yourself ; I should close your mouth with 
my kisses, I should lay my arms about your neck and 
whisper into your ear that I would rather eat dry bread with 
you than feast with any other man, that I would go and 
beg with you to the ends of the earth rather than become 
another man’s wife! That is what I should have said to 
you in the beech-grove that evening when we sat on the 
bank and the dead leaves were falling to our feet, and the 
rooks were cawing overhead, and we both felt so sad, oh, 
so wretched and so sad ! Do you not remember, Basil ? 


376 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

You must, you ;////.?/ remember ? ’ and she clutched his arm 
and almost shook it, as though she would awaken his 
memory by force. 

Mr. Rockingham stared in amazement. Could this be 
Charlotte? She was a weak creature, indeed, but her 
love was stronger than that of many strong women, and 
for one brief moment it had transformed her. 

For the first time in his life he stood almost shame- 
facedly before her, answering not a word ; there was no 
word that he could say. It was, indeed, terrible to be 
loved in this way. 

With a dry, tearless sob, Charlotte stopped speaking. 

The wall of silence by which she was met seemed to 
have convinced her more thoroughly than any arguments 
could have done. A new expression came into her face. 
Something of the same change which had come over him a 
short time ago seemed now to descend upon her. In the 
flash of a second she became very quiet, dangerously quiet, 
thought Mr. Rockingham, noting the gleam as of polished 
steel which dawned in her eyes. When she spoke this 
time, it was in a tone he had never heard her use — a dull, 
sullen voice, which somehow boded harm. 

‘And so you are determined to marry Countess El- 
dringen ? ’ 

‘ I am determined to try my luck.’ 

‘ And if I tell you that it lies in my power to prevent you 
doing so ? ’ 

‘ How so ? ’ he frigidly inquired. 

She seemed to be reflecting as to how to express her 
meaning. 

‘ I possess some information,’ she said at last, speaking 
with cautious slowness, ‘ which, should I choose to publish 
it, would undoubtedly prevent your marrying Ulrica El- 
dringen.’ 

‘ How did you come by this information? ’ 

‘ That is my secret.’ 

‘ I don’t believe there is any secret,’ said Mr. Rocking- 
ham boldly, though a slight alarm rung in his tone ; ‘ I 
defy you to produce any information which could stand in 
the way of my marriage.’ 


‘it is well to be off with the old love.’ 377 

‘ Nevertheless, I have but to say four words in order to 
throw your carefully built project in a miserable heap on 
the ground.’ 

‘ I don’t understand this ; it must be some absurd idea. 
Charlotte, what do you mean ? ’ In proportion as she was 
growing cooler, his excitement was rising. ‘ Charlotte, you 
must tell me what you mean.’ 

She looked at him doubtfully for a moment, as though 
wavering. Then she glanced about her with the same 
look of panic which he had noted once before on this even- 
ing. Finally she shook her head. 

‘ No, I cannot tell you.’ 

‘ Is it anything to her discredit ? ’ 

‘ It is something that will make you think less well of 
her.’ 

‘ This is too much or too little, I must know more. 
What was that you hinted just now about an attachment ? 
Is that what you mean ? You have found out something 
about her former life ? ’ 

‘ I will not tell you.’ 

But the innate brutality of the man was now roused ; 
she had tormented him, tantalised him, and she could hope 
for no mercy. 

‘ I insist upon your telling me. This secret you speak 
of, does it concern her former life? Answer me, Char- 
lotte! ’ 

‘O Basil!’ she gasped, bending from him in alarm, for 
he had seized her by the wrist and held her in no gentle 
grasp. ‘ O Basil, have pity ! ’ 

His fingers only tightened a little. 

‘ Charlotte, answer me.’ 

‘ No, no, it has nothing to do with her former life, 
nothing at all, I swear it! ’ 

‘ That is well,’ he said, releasing her. ‘ Whatever else 
there may be to hear I shall hear from her own lips, no 
doubt.’ 

Without giving Charlotte another glance he walked to 
the door and was gone. 

She remained standing where he had left her for a full 
minute, mechanically rubbing her bruised wrist. She knew 


378 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


that it was bruised, and yet she was not aware of any pain ; 
it was not there that the cruelty had lain. 

At last she knew for certain that she was nothing to him, 
and that that other woman was everything. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

THE LAST GAP. 

Until she heard the dull slam of the closing of the hall 
door, Charlotte stood where Mr. Rockingham had left 
her ; then with a start she roused herself, and stopped rub- 
bing her wrist. With long steps she began to pace up and 
down the length of the ‘ Venetian room,’ sweeping her 
white skirts behind her. It was only now that she was 
beginning again to think consecutively. 

She had followed Ulrica down from London, not with 
any distinct purpose in her mind, but mefely because of an 
instinctive dread she felt of losing sight of her until Basil 
should have sailed from England. Of his first wife she had 
not felt the smallest jealousy ; from the moment she had 
seen Lady Emmeline Rockingham’s photograph she had 
been satisfied that there could be no question of rivalry 
between them, that she, and she alone, must still reign su- 
preme in Basil’s heart. But this that was now impending 
was something altogether different; she was to cease to 
exist for him ; no, no, it could not, it could not be ! ’ 

And yet was it not even now working towards its accom- 
plishment f Was not Basil at this very moment on his way 
to the ^ marsh ’ ? Was not each turn by the wheels that were 
bearing him along the road diminishing the distance be- 
tween him and Ulrica, even as it was increasing the dis- 
tance between her old lover and her ? 

Where would he be by this time ? Her walk grew more 
restless, her steps more hurried. He would have passed 
the gates, of course, he would have reached the road, it 
would not be very long before he got to the old inn they 


THE LAST GAP. 


379 


called the ‘ Dead Sailor’s Home.’ Then a few minutes 
would take him to the ‘ marsh.’ How would the meeting 
exactly take place ? Ulrica would be watching the work- • 
men, he might not be able to speak to her alone at once ; 
but he was so clever, he would find an excuse for drawing 
her aside, the dusk would favour him, and then — and then — 
O God ! under the starlight of the summer night he would 
give her the kiss of betrothal. 

With a groan, Charlotte stood still, her hands hanging 
clenched by her sides, her eyes staring wildly about her. 
Whichever way she looked the same picture framed in 
crystal flowers met her eye : the tall, slight figure of a 
woman, white-robed, and but for the roving eyes, im- 
movable. The room seemed full of the ghosts of herself, 
all crowding around her, all whispering to her. She gazed 
at them vacantly, scarcely distinctly realising that they were 
but her own reflection thrown back by the many mirrors 
which almost covered the walls of this room. Her thoughts 
were far away on the ‘ marsh,’ and already her body was 
straining in the same direction. It was not possible to stay 
away. With her own eyes she must watch the course of 
events, with her own ears she must hear her doom sealed. 
Great God ! even at this very moment it might be happen- 
ing! And uttering a shrill exclamation, Charlotte almost 
rushed at the bell-rope. 

The startled face of the footman who answered the sum- 
mons surprised her in a vague and distant manner ; she 
was not aware of how violently she had rung. 

‘ I want a carriage immediately, my carriage, the 
brougham, the one I came over in, do you understand? 
Have the horses put to immediately.’ She scarcely waited 
till he was gone, but followed almost on his heels to the hall, 
where she resumed her restless walk, peering every now and 
then through the window to see if the brougham was not 
in sight. ‘ Surely it would be better if I were dead,’ she 
kept repeating to herself monotonously. ' Surely it would 
be better if I were dead. To the Old Hall, as fast as you 
can drive,’ was the order she gave the coachman as she 
stepped in. Then she bade him wait, and at the end of 
five minutes came down again in a dark walking costume 


380 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

for which she had exchanged her dinner-dress. Then the 
order was given for Morton Bank. 

It was past eight by this time, but the summer night did 
not promise to be as still as the summer day had been. 
I'hose green, pointed tongues which had begun by talking 
treason in whispers were now proclaiming their doctrine 
aloud; open rebellion had broken out among the slaves 
of the sun. All along the road they were putting their 
heads together, and the groups of beeches and oaks which 
stood here and there in the fields seemed to be gesticula- 
ting wildly, nodding and beckoning and huddling together 
like a band of conspirators engaged in earnest discussion. 

But the coachman had again received the order to drive 
fast, and in a comparatively short time Morton Bank was 
reached, and the line of the trees passed. Here the rising 
gale, unchecked by any obstacle, met Charlotte full in the 
teeth, as though determined to beat her back upon her 
steps. But she pressed onward undaunted. It was not yet 
quite dark, for the gale had brought no clouds with it. It 
promised to be but one of those brief summer storms 
which sometimes spring up after sunset and generally pass 
without rain. The fleecy atoms scudding over the sky were 
too slight and too rare even to veil the stars that were just 
beginning to twinkle out faintly. What between the star- 
light and the twilight, Charlotte could see her way plainly 
enough. She could even make out the group of moving 
figures that were swarming about one spot of the bank — 
men, horses, carts, all crossing and recrossing each other, all 
jostling against each other, all impregnated with the same 
intense sense of hurry. It was towards these that she di- 
rected her footsteps when she set out to cross the ‘ marsh,’ 
and it was not until she had drawm much nearer that she 
became aware of a smaller group, consisting of three per- 
sons only, who were slowly moving along the top of the 
bank, battling with the wind and gradually drawing nearer 
to the spot at which the work was going on. Two ladies 
and a gentleman — Ulrica, Mrs. Byrd, and Mr. Rockingham. 

Charlotte’s steps slackened a little ; she was more ex- 
hausted than she knew by her struggle with the gale. Now 
that she saw those three figures so close before her, she 


THE LAST GAP. 


381 


began to tremble at the audacity of her own venture. 
AVhat was it she had come for ? What could she hope to 
do ? What to prevent ? 

‘ Bless me, here’s another visitor! ’ exclaimed Mrs. Byrd, 
whose quick eyes were the first to espy the approaching 
figure. ‘ Who can it be f ’ 

They had come to a standstill now, and it was while 
Ulrica was examining the earthwork under their feet that 
Mrs. Byrd had made her discovery, for she was less inter- 
ested in earthworks than in possible visitors. The spot 
they had reached had only been filled in yesterday, as the 
expanse of fresh earth, stretching to a width of about a 
hundred yards, and contrasting sharply with the turf of the 
old bank, distinctly proclaimed. Thirteen such brown 
patches, varying in width from fifty to a hundred and fifty 
yards, could have been counted along the entire length of 
the bank, for thirteen gaps had already been closed ; it was 
with the fourteenth and last that they were busy over there. 

‘Why, it is Lady Nevyll,’ said Mr. Rockingham, in a 
tone of annoyed surprise. 

‘To be sure, it is Charlotte!’ exclaimed Ulrica, no less 
surprised. ‘ What on earth can she have come for ? She 
absolutely declined to drive out with us.’ 

‘ A telegram,’ suggested Mrs. Byrd. ‘ Or else the house 
is on fire.’ 

‘ Oh no, the house is not on fire,’ said Mr. Rockingham, 
somewhat bitterly. ‘ She has only changed her mind as 
usual, that is all.’ 

‘ A telegram or a fire ? ’ called out Mrs. Byrd, as soon 
as Charlotte had got within speaking distance. ‘Don’t 
keep us on thorns, there’s a dear!’ 

Charlotte did not appear to have heard ; indeed, in such 
a hurry was the rising gale to carry away every spoken 
word that even near neighbours were forced to converse 
in something not much under a shout. 

‘ Aren’t you going to give her an arm up ? ’ asked Mrs. 
Byrd of Mr. Rockingham, as Charlotte reached the foot 
of the bank and cast a doubtful glance upwards. 

There was no escape for Mr. Rockingham; with no 
very good grace he went to her assistance, and the next 


382 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


minute Lady Nevyll, leaning on his arm, emerged on to 
the top of the bank. At the same moment she started 
back nervously ; she had not been prepared to find herself 
in such immediate proximity to the water, for not only was 
it fast getting on towards high-water, but the gale blowing 
straight from the northwest was forcing the tide up above 
normal height, so that at this moment the bank did not 
stand more than eight or ten feet above an expanse of 
white-crested and tumultuous waves. 

‘ Now, do tell us what has happened? ’ asked Mrs. Byrd 
of Charlotte, who still clung to Mr. Rockingham’s arm, 
attempting in vain to steady herself on the three feet or so 
of level ground, and at the same time fighting with the 
wind for her hat. 

‘Nothing,’ gasped Charlotte — ‘nothing has happened. 
Only it was so t-t-tiresome alone, and I thought as the night 
was so fi-fine I would come a-af-after all.’ Her voice was 
no match for the wind. 

‘ Fine, indeed! ’ shouted back Mrs. Byrd. ‘ It’s nothing 
but a special dispensation of Providence that we’ve not 
all been blown to tatters long ago. It’s the funniest ar- 
rangement I’ve ever heard of. Are there any more detach- 
ments of spectators coming out, I wonder ? or are you posi- 
tively the last ? ’ 

‘ I don’t know, I had to come,’ said Charlotte vaguely. 

‘ But in this wind and with your cold! ’ 

‘ I had to come,’ she repeated. She was looking anx- 
iously at Ulrica ; no, nothing had happened yet, so much 
was certain ; Mrs. Byrd’s presence must have been an ob- 
stacle. Then she gazed sideways at Basil’s face, and 
instinctively shrunk back. He had not spoken, but the 
frown of anger on his face told her enough. 

‘ Oh, you had to come, had you % ’ chattered on Mrs. 
Byrd, in happy unconsciousness of the strain in the situa- 
tion. ‘ All I can say is that if this wind is going to rise 
much more I shall have to go. My dear girl, let’s get into 
the shelter of the bank, I entreat you.’ 

‘ Not yet! ’ cried Ulrica eagerly. ‘ I love this wind, it’s 
the very thing I have come for!’ 

Ulrica stood with her face towards the sea ; her cheek 


THE LAST GAP. 


383 


was wet with spray, one lock of dark hair was blown right 
across her forehead ; in her belt she had stuck a bunch of 
late sea-pinks, the last of the sea-pinks that would bloom 
on the ‘ marsh,’ for in a few months the plough would have 
passed over that green surface, and the wild stripling have 
bowed its neck to the iron yoke of utility. 

‘ Might I implore you not to stand quite so near the 
edge ? ’ remarked Mr. Rockingham, with an anxiety which 
to Charlotte was only a fresh stab. 

‘ It does look nervous work, does it not ? ’ said Mrs. Byrd, 
‘ though I suppose that if we did slip in we should have 
nothing more tragical to encounter than a cold foot-bath.’ 

‘ Rather more than that,’ observed Ulrica, stepping back. 
‘ The foot-bath would be over there where that boat is lying ; 
but you forget that we are standing on what was yesterday 
still a gap, and here, straight in front of us, the sand is dug 
out to a depth of ten or twelve feet at least.’ 

‘ Do you mean that it would be possible to drown one’s 
self in one of these holes ? ’ asked Charlotte, suddenly let- 
ting go her hold on Mr. Rockingham’s arm, and advancing 
even more perilously near to the edge than Ulrica had 
done. 

‘ Most uncomfortably possible, I should say,’ remarked 
Mrs. Byrd, with a shrug of her shoulders. ‘ Let’s go and 
see how they are getting on with the bank over there. If 
the worst comes to the worst, and the gale turns to a hur- 
ricane, I intend to sit down under a cart.’ And with this 
conclusion she ran nimbly down the side of the bank. 

Ulrica followed more slowly. She was puzzled over 
Charlotte’s manner. That last remark had been spoken in 
so strange a tone, and under such evident excitement, that 
it awoke in her mind some vague misgiving. She had 
never before seen Lady Nevyll so unstrung, so obviously 
drifting about between changing impulses, her helplessness 
so aggravated, her indecision so palpable — in one word so 
completely a caricature of herself. 

As they neared the scene of action it became evident 
that the critical moment was approaching. 

The last half-hour before the turn of the tide was one 
which lived in the memory of those present as the most 
2 ^; 


384 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

entirely breathless half-hour of their lives ; scarcely less 
breathless to the spectators than to the workers themselves, 
for although several hundred men were assembled on the 
spot — navvies who had knocked off work at other gaps — 
there was not room for more than eighty or ninety to be 
simultaneously employed. The others stood by, their 
hands in their pockets, their pipes in their mouths, the 
shrewd interest with which they were following the work 
distinctly piercing through the stolidity of their counte- 
nances. Many of the pipes had gone out without the 
smokers becoming aware of it. They knew well enough 
that there was absolutely nothing to do but to stand by 
idle ; that to rush to the assistance of those eighty or ninety 
companions would only increase the confusion and retard 
instead of hastening the advance of the bank. 

Breathless though the work was, it was almost silent. 
No one had any power of lungs to waste on shouts or 
words of command, even if every one had not instinctively 
felt that the gale would have swallowed them up unheard. 

No need, either, for commands; no need for encourage- 
ment, no need for cheering on ; the blood of even the most 
stolid was up. They were racing with the tide, and they 
knew it, and each man felt that to be beaten by the sea must 
to an Englishman be an indelible disgrace. How could 
they ever again sing ‘ Rule Britannia ’ if they allowed those 
miserable twelve feet of water to get the better of them 
and of their bank "? 

Even Mr. Bolt, soul and spirit though he was of the 
whole, scarcely opened his lips during that long half-hour. 
With his white head bare in the wind — for his hat had long 
since been carried away — his clothes drenched with the 
salt spray, he stood upright on the rising bank, in himself 
a mute appeal to the workers. What could he have said f 
Was not every muscle strained to the utmost already, 
every wheel turning as fast as a wheel can be made to turn, 
every lash laid on at its sharpest, every bit of harness strain- 
ing and creaking to the very verge of collapse? No rest 
for a moment — up the bank, down the bank ; up with the 
full cart, down with the empty one ; a fresh load of earth 
tilted out of the light box-cart at the top, then a clatter and 


THE LAST GAP. 


3S5 


a scramble down ; one man at the jaded horse’s head, 
another hanging on to the back of the cart in guise of a living 
drag. Every wheelbarrow and every spade that could be 
begged, borrowed, or stolen for miles around seems to be 
collected about the spot ; they are being stumbled over, 
kicked aside, and anathematised quite as much as they are 
being used, for, as in the case of the men, so also does 
the filling up of this last gap of all suffer from an oversup- 
ply of instruments and an undersupply of space. 

Up the bank, down the bank, and all the time to be 
battling with the wind for one’s every breath, and all the 
time to know that to relax the utmost effort for one minute 
is to let the sea top the bank. As it was, the new earth- 
work could not by any effort be kept more than a couple 
of inches above the heaving surface of the water. From 
time to time Mr. Bolt drew out his watch to see how many 
minutes remained before the tide must turn and the battle 
be won. Ten minutes more, five minutes more. Was it 
possible that, after all, they were going to beat that old fiend, 
the ocean, whose greedy claws had seemed already to be 
fixed into that precious bit of earth ? 

‘If only one could help!’ said Ulrica, for the fiftieth 
time already. ‘ I am sure I could wheel a barrow.’ 

Four minutes more, three minutes more, and then, 
though nothing in the situation seemed changed to the eye, 
Mr. Bolt knew that the worst of the danger was past. A 
few more cartfuls of earth, a few more torturing minutes 
of suspense, and it became evident that the tide was in 
retreat. Half an inch, an inch, two inches it fell, and hur- 
rah! the precious bit of bank still stood firm. Mr. Bolt 
pocketed his watch and came off the bank. It was the 
signal for a general breath to be drawn all round, and for 
at least half the spades to be thrown aside. The other 
half worked on, though no longer at the same mad pace ; 
there would be plenty of time before the return of high 
water to get the earthwork up out of all danger. One or 
two of the men flung themselves down full length on the 
turf, panting and drenched with sweat and spray. Mr. 
Bolt walked straight up to Ulrica, and having briefly an- 
nounced, ‘ We’ve done it,’ went and sat down on an over- 


386 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

turned wheelbarrow, probably in order to conceal the fact 
that his old legs were too unsteady with excitement to sup- 
port him any longer. 

It had now got on to well past nine o’clock. Twilight 
was fading into the transparent darkness of the summer 
night. The navvies began to move slowly off in larger or 
smaller groups, leading the tired horses with them. The 
last of the workers threw aside their spades, and began to 
draw on their boots. True, the waves were still dashing 
against the bank and the spray was hissing in the air, but 
all that noisy demonstration had now become ridiculous. 
After their boots were drawn on, the last of the workmen 
still lingered around the spot, laconically exchanging their 
impressions and watching the retreat of the tide with grim 
satisfaction. It was as though they were gloating over 
their vanquished enemy. 

Even Ulrica seemed to share something of this sentiment, 
for instead of making any movement towards leaving the 
spot, she follow’ed Mr. Bolt’s example by sitting down 
on one of the overturned wheelbarrows which were lying 
about in every direction. 

Mrs. Byrd, having announced her intention of congrat- 
ulating the engineer upon his success, walked over to where 
the old man was still struggling to recover his composure. 

Mr. Rockingham drew a breath of relief. His nerves 
were excellently trained, but during the whole of this even- 
ing they had been subjected to an undue strain. If he could 
not create the opportunity he required this very evening, 
he must either leave England with his fate undecided, or 
telegraph for extension of leave at break of day to-morrow. 
All evening long he had been waiting to pounce on such a 
chance as Mrs. Byrd’s withdrawal from the scene afforded 
him. To be sure, Charlotte was still there, standing a pace 
or two from the wheelbarrow on which Ulrica sat, and 
obviously undecided as to whether she should take place 
beside her or not. But Mr. Rockingham knew that his 
power over this woman was complete, that, whatever tort- 
ure she might be suffering, she would never dare to act 
against his will, once distinctly expressed. 

It requhed very little diplomacy to effect his purpose. 


THE LAST GAP. 


387 


Lady Nevyll’s shawl was forever escaping her hold in the 
wind and fluttering half out of her grasp. Nothing could be 
easier than for Mr. Rockingham to say, ‘ Allow me,’ and to 
walk over to her side. Under cover of the fastening of 
the shawl all he had to say were the five words, pronounced 
in a low, distinct whisper, ‘ Leave me alone with her.’ 

‘ Where am I to go ? ’ whispered back Charlotte, with 
trembling lips. 

Mr. Rockingham very nearly said, ‘To the devil, if 
you like,’ but controlled himself sufficiently to substitute, 
‘ Anywhere out of the way ; go over to Mrs. Byrd. I must 
be left alone with her. Do you understand f ’ 

She gazed up into his face with desperate, imploring eyes. 
There was neither pity nor relenting there, not the shadow 
of a hope. He did not even meet her gaze. Without 
another word, poor, helpless, forlorn Charlotte turned and 
slunk away, feeling as though the green surface of the 
‘ marsh ’ were swaying beneath her feet, understanding ex- 
actly w'hat it was that was going to happen, and under- 
standing too that she herself was helping it to happen, yet 
feeling too numb even to raise a finger, could she by doing 
so have retarded the course of events. 

She did not join Mrs. Byrd ; it was in the opposite di- 
rection that she moved away. Mr. Rockingham, satisfied 
that she was gone, never thought of observing which way 
she went. It was now dark enough to favour the move- 
ments of any one who wished to remain unnoticed. 

‘ Why, what have you done with Lady N evyll ? ’ asked 
Ulrica, somewhat startled to see him returning towards her 
alone. She also, like Charlotte, understood what was coming, 
and foresaw that the crisis which she had managed to avert 
at the ice-ball had once again become imminent. As she 
asked the question she looked past Mr. Rockingham, 
searching the gloom behind for some much desired ‘ third 
person ’ whose presence would make all personal topics im- 
possible. There was no third person forthcoming, but 
just as she looked a figure was seen to emerge against 
the sky at a little distance off. It began to move slowly 
along the top of the bank, growing more and more indis- 
tinct in the gloom. There was the fluttering end of a 


388 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

shawl — could it be Charlotte ? And what could Charlotte 
be doing over there all alone? 

But before Ulrica had gone further in her reflections, 
and before Mr. Rockingham had had time to utter a word, 
something quite unexpected occurred, for all at once Mr. 
Bolt sprung to his feet, overturning the wheelbarrow on 
which he had been sitting. 

‘ The bank! ’ he shouted, in a tone of sudden terror. 

Ulrica looked — every one looked — and there, sure enough, 
at about four feet from the top of the unfinished earthwork 
a jet of water of the thickness of a man’s wrist was spout- 
ing out, clear and vigorous. 

There was a shout all round,, and the dozen or so work- 
men who by good luck had not yet turned homewards, 
rushed at the spot and set about trampling the bank with 
all their strength, pounding sod after sod into the breach 
with their heavy hob-nailed boots. The fiend was, after all, 
more wily than they had given him credit for. A few 
more minutes of this sort of thing and every bit of the new 
earthwork would be doomed. 

At the moment of the alarm Ulrica had risen ; she was 
still breathlessly watching the swarm of men about the 
threatened spot, when all at once she raised her head 
sharply. Had that been a cry ? She paused to listen, not 
certain whether she had heard aright ; there were so many 
sounds all round, the wind, the water, the shouts of these 
trampling men, that it might well be ; no, there it came 
again, unmistakable this time, borne to her very ear by a 
breath of the gale. A cry, a cry for help, a woman’s cry. 
What was this wild idea that shot through her mind ? Why 
did she scan the sky-line of the bank with this sudden feeling 
of panic upon her ? The figure that had been visible there 
a few minutes ago was gone, and the spot where she had 
seen it last would correspond as nearly as she could guess 
to that same spot on which the party had been standing a 
little earlier in the evening. Charlotte’s face, with the 
strange look it had then worn, returned to her memory ; 
Charlotte’s words rang in her ears : ‘ Do you mean that it 
would be possible to drowm one’s self in one of these 
holes ? ’ 


CHARLOTTE CHANGES HER MIND. 


389 


In one instant it had all passed through her mind ; in 
the next, already, light as a deer, she had bounded up the 
bank, and was running at the top of her speed towards the 
spot from whence the cries were ringing fainter and ever 
fainter. 


CHAPTER XL. 

CHARLOTTE CHANGES HER MIND. 

Before Ulrica reached the spot the cries had almost 
ceased. She was even not quite certain whether they had 
guided her aright. As she stood for one terrible moment 
on the freshly stamped earth of yesterday’s gap, her breast 
heaving tumultuously with the speed at which she had run, 
the pulses beating in her ears and in her throat, there 
seemed to be no sign of life anywhere. In the sheet of 
water before her, strain her eyes as she would, she could 
see no movement but the heave and the break, the break 
and the heave, of those unquiet, foam-crested waves. 
Almost was she on the point of starting off once more to 
hurry further along the bank when there was an audible 
flap in the water, and there, not six paces from the shore, 
at her very feet, it seemed, something dark bulged from 
between two waves. There was no cry this time, nothing 
but a long-drawn moan. 

Immediately all Ulrica’s presence of mind returned to 
her. In face of the urgent necessity her thoughts ranged 
themselves with precision. She was standing on what 
had till the day before been a gap in the bank, conse- 
quently here, straight in front of her, there lay what they 
technically termed the ‘ gutter ’ — in other words, a pool of 
about a hundred yards in width, and in which at this 
moment the water could scarcely be less than eight feet in 
depth. There was no possibility of reaching that dark 
floating object from the bank, and to plunge in, since she 
could not swim, would simply mean the loss of two lives 


390 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM'. 


instead of one. The boats — ^her eye had fallen upon them 
already — the boats were the only chance, but these too 
were out of reach of the bank. 

‘ But I can get to them through the shallow waxr,’ she 
said to herself, not merely in her thoughts, but actually 
pronouncing the words with her lips, as people sometimes 
do in moments of intense excitement, as though the sound 
of the words helped to give one a firmer hold upon the 
idea. 

‘ Let me see, let me try and remember,’ she argued out 
the point of herself ; ‘ at the foot of the old bank there, 
where the boats are lying, the water can only be between 
fifteen and twenty inches deep. If only I can get one 
loose. There will be chains, I suppose, or cord.’ 

Even as she thought it she had started off running 
again, but this time it was not far, only to where the 
abrupt change from brown earth to green turf marked the 
spot where the new bank merged into the old. 

‘ I am coming, I am coming ! ’ she called out as she ran, 
under the indistinct impression that the hope of immediate 
succour would keep up the struggling woman’s courage and 
with it her strength. 

The instant her foot touched the turf she checked her- 
self and slid down the side of the bank. 

Yes, she had calculated rightly, the water did not even 
reach to her knees, though, owing to the constant roll, it 
was difficult to keep her footing even in this depth. It 
seemed to her an age before she had reached the boats ; in 
reality not more than two minutes had elapsed between the 
time that she had first stood still on the bank and the 
moment that she put her hand on the side of the nearest 
boat. As she did so it became frightfully clear to her that 
by no effort of strength would she ever be able to move 
this huge lumbering monster by an inch. Though there 
was still water enough to send it rolling lazily from side to 
side, its keel lay more than half buried in the sand below. 
It was all up, then — no, there was something better still. 
— one of the small feather-light skiffs which the fishermen 
used in fine weather, trailing by a rope to the bow of the 
big boat. 


CHARLOTTE CHANGES HER MIND. 39 1 

She was in it in a moment. 

Would the knot ever be loosened? She tore off her 
gloves and tried again. Oh, how at that moment she 
blessed the habit of manual work, which had made her 
fingers so strong and so agile. Already the skiff was floating 
free, when she caught sight of a pair of sculls lying on the 
floor of the larger boat, and it occurred to her that she had 
no oars. With a desperate lunge over the side, which 
shipped a fair caskful of water, she succeeded in grasping 
the nearest of the sculls, and already was being drawn 
outward by the receding tide. She had no more notion of 
rowing than she had of swimming, but by leaning over the 
side of the skiff and plunging the oar downward to its 
entire length she was able to touch the bottom of the flood 
hollow, and thus, by a series of digs and pushes, to guide 
herself towards the spot where that dark object was still 
feebly beating its arms on the surface of the water. It 
did not require many digs or pushes either, for here also 
the retreating tide was doing its work, and within the last 
few seconds had sucked its victim as many more feet away 
from the bank. 

‘ I am coming ! I am coming ! ’ Ulrica kept on call- 
ing even after she was already come, even after she had 
reached the struggling figure, and, letting the oar drop into 
the water, had seized her by the arms and was attempting 
to drag her into the boat. A mere waste of strength — she 
felt that immediately — and which must unavoidably result 
in the capsizing of the boat. Poor Charlotte in herself 
was no great weight, but her wet clothes clung about her 
like lead. ‘ Better keep my breath for shouting,’ was 
Ulrica’s instinctive reflection, as, kneeling in the skiff, she 
held on like grim death to her prize, shouting for help the 
while with all the power of her strong young lungs. 

‘ Immediately, they will be here immediately, don’t be 
frightened, don’t let go,’ she said between whiles over the 
edge of the boat, though it was not clear to her whether 
Charlotte heard her or not. Her eyes, indeed, were open, 
but the convulsive clutch of her cold fingers upon Ulrica’s 
sleeve was growing feebler instant by instant. 

‘ They will be here immediately^^ ! ’ It seemed to Ulrica 


392 QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

that she had repeated the mechanical phrase hundreds and 
hundreds of times, when, just as her strength was beginning 
to fail, there appeared running figures on the bank. 

What next happened remained ever after strangely 
jumbled in her memory, for, from the moment that the 
necessity for clear thought ceased, her brain began to swim 
under pressure of the excitement. She never knew whether 
it was Mr. Rockingham, or Mr. Bolt, or one of the work- 
men who plunged off the bank and with half a dozen vigor- 
ous strokes had reached the skiff ; she never knew who it 
was who relieved her stiffening arms of the -weight that was 
beginning to grow intolerable, nor could she afterwards 
remember how she herself had got back to dry ground. 

The next moment that was clear to her was the one when 
she was sitting on a heap of turf, shivering in her wet clothes, 
and listening with strained attention to Mr. Bolt’s brief words 
of command : 

‘ Higgins, the brandy bottle — quick I say! You, Jo, keep 
rubbing her hands; don’t stop for a minute, man! Up 
with her head, a bit more yet ! ’ 

Then came a pause, and then at last came the w'ords 
wUich Ulrica was waiting to hear : 

‘ She is alive.’ 

And the next thing after that again, the next distinct 
picture which Ulrica bore away of the terrors of that night, 
was the vision of Charlotte lying, white and feeble, in the 
small rude bed at the ‘ Dead Sailor’s Home,’ w^hither she 
had been carried still in a half conscious state. 

Most sorely surprised was Mrs. Spicer, the respectable 
dame who kept the drearily named little inn, when the nav- 
vies stopped with their strange burden at her door and she 
was called upon to make room for her ladyship ‘ as has got 
drooned in the gooter ; ’ and with the most respectful alacrity 
did she place the narrow strip of a bedroom in which she 
had been about to lay her own ancient limbs to rest at her 
‘ drooned ’ ladyship’s disposal. Everything in the shape of 
a hot bottle or a warmed sheet that the house could pro- 
duce was speedily forthcoming, and soon the ghastly pale 
woman in the bed began to show signs of revival. 

The doctor, who appeared about an hour after they had 


CHARLOTTE CHANGES HER MIND. 


393 


reached the inn, was averse to a move being made before 
morning ; and so, until daylight came, Ulrica sat on a wooden 
chair watching Charlotte as she slumbered fitfully in Mrs. 
Spicer’s bed, and listening to the gale which still swept in 
from the sea, making the little diamond-paned windows 
rattle in their somewhat decrepit sockets. Something in 
this way the wind must have whistled round the comers of 
the house on the night of that legendary v/reck which they 
still spoke of on this coast. Neither was it the wind alone 
which helped to conjure up the vision of that disastrous 
night of fifty years ago, for, perhaps in order to live up to 
the requirements of the title, the landlady of the ‘ Dead 
Sailor ’ had adorned every mantelpiece in her house with 
various bits of rotten wood and rusty iron, which took 
precedence even of the unavoidable fan-shells and sea- 
urchins never wanting in a certain class of house at a cer- 
tain distance from the sea, and which she confidently 
affirmed to be relics of the wreck. 

Ulrica reflected a good deal during that long vigil, while 
Mrs. Byrd slept soundly on a mattress spread on the floor, 
and Mr. Rockingham slumbered — not quite so soundly — in 
an armchair in the parlour. She thought she understood 
what had happened. Indeed, it was not hard to understand, 
poor Charlotte’s secret was so pitifully open. A great many 
things became clear to her as hour followed upon hour, and 
she looked back upon past events with eyes which, now 
that the passionate bitterness in her heart was fading away 
(how was it that since her visit to No. 8 in Cheesley 
Villas that bitterness had begun to fade so rapidly?), were 
able to estimate both events and things at their true value. 
She vowed to herself to make up for her past want of 
generosity by nursing Charlotte assiduously till she was well, 
and — when she was well — by forgiving her (perhaps if she 
tried very hard she might succeed in this) — by forgiving her 
for having been loved by Gilbert. And that point having 
once been reached, all the rest was simple enough. Mr. 
Rockingham was a man of sense, and, being convinced of 
the hopelessness of his present suit, there was no reason why 
Charlotte might not yet be happy forever after with her 
Basil, about whom she seemed infatuated even to the point 


394 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


of suicide. As Ulrica sat and listened to the various voices 
which the gale was assuming in turn, and wondered vaguely 
whether the windows would be forced in or not, she could 
distinctly see herself laying Charlotte’s hand within Basil’s 
upon some future day, and, having started them on their 
honeymoon, turning her steps and her attention towards 
Dark Street, to the improvement of which she intended to 
devote the rest of her life. 

There is nothing which is so soothing as to have come to 
a virtuous resolution ; and so much cheered did Ulrica feel 
by the programme she had sketched out for the future, that 
she never noticed the grave expression on Dr. Smithson’s 
face when he next returned to note the progress of the 
patient. 

‘ VVe can move her now, can we not ? ’ asked Ulrica 
eagerly. ‘ She would be so much more comfortable at 
home.’ 

‘ We must move her,’ said the doctor. He had just been 
going through various manipulations which Ulrica knew to 
have been an examination of Lady Nevyll’s lungs. 

‘ We must move her immediately,’ he said, stepping up 
to Ulrica in the window. ‘ Once the fever has come on, 
the risk would be too great.’ 

‘The fever? Must a fever come on? What is it 
going to be ? ’ 

‘ It may be nothing, possibly ; for most people it would 
simply be a bad cold, at the worst a stiff round of rheuma- 
tism; but I have known her ladyship’s constitution for 
fifteen years, and I own I shall be surprised if, after such 
a wetting as this, she gets off with anything less than an 
attack of inflammation of the lungs.’ 

‘Will it be a long illness?’ asked Ulrica, somewhat 
sobered. 

Dr. Smithson looked at her with a little hesitation ex- 
pressed on his face. 

‘ No,’ he said at last, with the same hesitation in his voice. 
‘ I don’t think it will be a long illness — in either case.’ 

On that same day Charlotte was moved to the Old Hall. 

Her sick-bed was not the first bedside which Ulrica had 
watched, neither was this the first case of inflammation of 


CHARLOTTE CHANGES HER MIND. 


395 


the lungs with which she had had to do, for during her life 
at Glockenau she had gathered much sick-room experience ; 
and yet for two whole days she did not guess what was 
coming. She wanted Charlotte to recover, if only in order 
that that hastily sketched-out programme should become a 
reality, and, being sanguine by nature, she therefore be- 
lieved that what she wanted was going to happen. 

Even when hot fit succeeded cold fit, and the hectic red 
burnt on Charlotte’s cheek and the hollow cough racked 
her poor tortured chest, it only caused her to redouble the 
remorseful solicitude with which she was devoting herself 
to the woman whom she had once regarded as her rival ; 
but it never caused her to despair. 

The truth, when it came upon her, came with the stun- 
ning force of a blow. 

It was on the morning of the third day that it came 
about — very early in the morning or very late in the night, 
as one might choose to take it. Ulrica, worn out with long 
watches, had fallen fast asleep on a sofa, so fast asleep that 
when roused by the short hacking cough she was beginning 
to know so well, she could not immediately be sure where 
she was, nor whether it was night or morning. She was by 
Charlotte’s side already, holding the soothing drink to her 
lips, before she had succeeded in quite collecting her senses. 

Charlotte pushed the glass aside, shaking her head. 
As she took her handkerchief from her lips Ulrica saw that 
it was stained with blood. 

Without a word she sprang at the bell. ‘ Send for Dr. 
Smithson immediately,’ she said, not turning her head as 
she heard the door opening. To her astonishment it was 
Dr. Smithson who advanced to the bed. He had paid his 
last visit late last night and had retired without making any 
special comment. 

‘ I thought it more advisable to sleep in the house,’ was 
the reply he gave to Ulrica’s questioning glance. 

Five breathless minutes passed, minutes that were heavy 
with questions of life and death, and now Charlotte lay 
once more still among her cushions, a little whiter, a shade 
more ghastly than she had been an hour ago. Ulrica, 
casting one more glance backwards as she followed the 


396 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

doctor out of the room, saw that the eyelids were closed, 
the breast slowly laboring, the hands lying passive on the 
coverlet. Most likely she would remain in this state of 
semi-consciousness for hours. 

Close outside the door, keeping her fingers upon the 
handle which she had not even turned, so impossible did 
it seem that that inert figure in the bed could be capable 
of anything so active as listenings Ulrica stood still and 
looked into the doctor’s face. He was waiting for her in 
the passage. 

‘ That was blood,’ she said in a steady whisper ; ‘ did you 
see? ’ 

‘ Do you think that her ladyship would wish any of her 
relations to be telegraphed for ? ’ was Dr. Smithson’s reply. 

Ulrica grasped the door-handle a little tighter. 

‘ Do you mean that there is no hope f ’ 

‘ I mean that until now it has, in my opinion, been a 
question of days, and that now it has become a question 
of hours — that is what I mean. I have watched her lady- 
ship for some time past ; these two winters, which, contrary 
to my advice, she insisted on passing in England, have been 
her undoing. But for this last unfortunate accident she 
might, by confining herself exclusively to a warm climate, 
have kept herself alive for some years ; but it would scarcely 
have been living, simply a keeping alive.” As matters 
now stand I cannot even answer fo'r the next twenty-four 
hours. Most likely the next twelve will see the end.’ 

Ulrica leant against the door-post, too much staggered 
to speak immediately. 

' I suppose you would not object to a consultation? ’ she 
asked at last. 

Dr. Smithson bowed politely. 

‘ Quite the contrary. In fact, if you had not made the 
suggestion I should have insisted on a consultation, or per- 
haps I should rather say a ratification of my verdict, for 
unfortunately the case is so terribly simple that it is almost 
an insult to Sir William Parner to be telegraphed for.’ 

‘ Telegraph for him all the same,’ said Ulrica, and as Dr. 
Smithson moved away to execute her wish, she gathered 
together all her strength, and re-entered that sick-room, 


CHARLOTTE CHANGES HER MIND. 397 

which, as she now knew, was so soon to be a chamber of 
death. She came in softly, holding her breath ; careful not 
to push against the tall Japanese screen that had been 
placed there as a guard against possible draughts. Softly 
she skirted its lacquered edge, and then stopped short with 
a start of terror. There, close to the thin paper wall, her 
hands clutching the back of a chair, her bare feet sinking 
into the soft carpet, the flicker of a night-light playing over 
her white night-dress, stood Charlotte. 

‘ Are you mad 1 ’ screamed Ulrica, starting forward after 
that first moment of stupefaction. 

Charlotte turned her white, frightened face upon her. 
There was something of the look of the criminal on it be- 
fore whose eyes the judge has just donned his black cap. 
'But, scared though she was, there was an incongruous and 
quite inexplicable eagerness piercing through the look of 
pure fright. 

‘ I heard everything,’ she said, in a faint, husky voice. ‘ I 
heard Dr. Smithson say that I am going to die — to-day, 
perhaps. Oh, you thought I was asleep, did you ? ’ and a 
gleam of cunning came into the unnaturally bright blue 
eyes. 

‘ Go back to bed,’ said Ulrica peremptorily. 

‘ Yes, yes, I am going back. I know all that I want to 
know : I am going to die ; and you would have let me die 
without my knowing how near it was. That would have 
been terrible ! ’ 

‘ You are talking nonsense! ’ said Ulrica, trying to speak 
angrily. ‘ You could not have heard — ’ 

‘ Could I not ? I can repeat every word. If it had not 
been for this accident I might have been “ kept alive ” for 
years. Have I got that right? Tell me, do you believe 
that it was an accident ? ’ 

‘ I don’t know what to believe,’ said Ulrica, in sore dis- 
tress. ‘ Oh, do lie still, I implore of you ; don’t speak, 
don’t say another word. It is the only chance — ’ 

‘ That is not true — there is no more chance — you forget 
that I heard everything. I am glad I cheated you ; I am 
glad I listened ; I felt I was going to die, but I wanted to 
know for certain, quite for certain.’ 


398 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

‘ But I don’t want you to die,’ said Ulrica fiercely. ‘ I 
want you to live. Dr. Smithson may be mistaken, doctors 
often are. I have telegraphed for Sir William Pamer — he 
may give us hope. Don’t lose courage; please, please 
don’t lose courage.’ 

‘ Sir William Parner — yes, I heard that too. Do you 
think I am a fool, Ulrica ? Do you think I am frightened 
of dying ? I am not frightened — at least I don’t think I 
am. When I stood on the bank and saw che water so 
close before me I was not frightened either ; but when I 
felt the cold, cold water rising and getting into my ears 
and into my throat, I — ’ she shuddered convulsively. 

‘You changed your mind,’ said Ulrica, with a grimly 
humourous recollection of some remark which Mr. Rocking- 
ham had made that last evening on the ‘ marsh.’ 

‘Yes, I changed my mind. Why don’t you laugh? I 
think it is rather funny. I have been changing my mind 
all my life, and generally it was too late.’ 

‘ Charlotte, Charlotte ! ’ sobbed Ulrica, kneeling beside 
the bed. ‘ It must not be too late now, I will not let it be 
too late. I am going to nurse you, oh, so carefully ; you 
cannot think what care I shall take of you. I have been 
unkind to you, I know, cruelly unkind ; but when you are 
well again you will forgive me, and you will never, never 
have a better friend than I shall be to you — I swear it, 
Charlotte — never! ’ 

She was attempting to caress Charlotte’s fever-hot fin- 
gers as she spoke, but they were impatiently withdrawn. 
The wide blue eyes remained indeed fixed on her face, 
but there was nothing like response in their over-brilliant 
light. 

‘You needn’t give yourself all that trouble. I don’t 
want your friendship. You are my enemy and I am yours. 
Don’t you know that I hate you ? That I can’t help hating 
you ? There is only one other person that I ever hated 
like you. Why, I hate you so much that I am even almost 
glad that I am dying, because, you see, now I can speak. 
It has nearly killed me not to speak before, and yet I could 
not until I knew for certain, quite for certain that I should 
not recover. Did you actually think,’ and she turned her 


CHARLOTTE CHANGES HER MIND. 


399 


head sharply on the pillow, ' that I was going to die with- 
out my revenger The husky voice merged into husky 
laughter, which a new fit of coughing immediately cut 
short. Then for several minutes she lay back with closed 
eyes, while Ulrica clasped her hands and prayed that she 
might relapse into that semi-slumber which for the last two 
days had been the only approach to rest. Almost she 
hoped that her prayer was heard, when the strangely 
brilliant eyes opened wide upon her once more. 

‘ It is too dark here,’ she said, in a voice which seemed 
suddenly to have grown stronger. ‘ I have something to 
show you. The night-light is not enough; it must be 
almost day — will you open the shutters, please ? ’ 

‘ Can’t you show it me later, some other time ? ’ 

' What other time ? ’ asked Charlotte, in the same voice. 

' When you have rested a little,’ said Ulrica soothingly. 
She knew that it was necessary to speak soothingly to fever- 
patients whose minds were beginning to wander, as was 
evidently the case here. 

‘ I will rest when I have done what I have to do. Will 
you open the shutters or not ? ’ 

There were symptoms of returning excitement in the 
high, thin tones. Ulrica rose from her knees and walked 
to the window. To humour her would, after all, be the 
safest course. 

How grateful was the fresh air on her face as she threw 
back the shutters! The sun had not yet risen, though a 
little of its overflowing light was already welling up over 
the brim of the horizon, as wine that has been too gen- 
erously poured runs over the edge of its cup. The trees in 
the park of the Old Hall have not yet awakened from their 
dreams ; lifeless, lightless, shadowless they stand in their 
midsummer wealth of leaves, not stirred yet by a single 
bird’s wing nor enlivened by the buzz of even one of the 
many busy insects that have been humming about them all 
yesterday. On the grass blades millions of heavy drops 
are hanging, dull grey glass as yet, waiting only for the 
first beam that shoots over the horizon to be struck into 
diamonds and rubies and opals, more costly than any that 
ever adorned the crown of any earthly king. 


400 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

Ulrica took one long look at the young morning, then 
walked back slowly across the room to the bed where Char- 
lotte lay waiting for her. 


CHAPTER XLI. 
charlotte’s last failure. 

As her eyes sought that face upon the pillow it was all 
that Ulrica could do to disguise her start of consternation. 
The grey light that comes before dawn revealed secrets 
which the dim flame of the little wick floating in oil had 
been too feeble to betray. Who that has once looked upon 
the face of Death can ever again mistake his approach ? 
This that stood written on Charlotte’s so weirdly pinched, 
so grotesquely shrunken features was familiar to Ulrica; 
she had spelled the same lesson from off her father’s face, 
when handsome, light-hearted Emil Eldringen had lain 
himself down in the best bedroom of the ‘ Golden Sun ’ at 
Glockenau ; Pater Sepp’s withered brow had told the same 
tale on a certain desolate day of August, now nearly two 
years past ; even her mother’s face bore to her recollec- 
tion that unmistakable stamp which had been upon it when 
last with childish eyes she gazed thereon. 

But apart from that common feature which gives so 
uncanny a look of kinship even to countenances most rad- 
ically unlike, there was something in Charlotte’s face 
which Ulrica had never seen in the face of any dying per- 
son. It was that same eagerness which had struck her at 
the moment when she surprised Charlotte standing behind 
the screen, and which the growing light now more fully 
revealed ; an eagerness so intense, so devouring that it was 
stronger even than the fear of death, lighting up the wasted 
features into something that might have been mistaken for 
gladness. More than once within the last few days Ulrica, 
meeting Charlotte’s eyes fixed upon her, had been puzzled 
by their expression of mingled watchfulness and scorn and 


charlotte’s last failure. 


401 


■ — was it triumph, that third element which had vaguely- 
haunted her ? Triumph undoubtedly ; there was no room 
left now for puzzling or doubt ; what had hitherto betrayed 
itself in passing gleams now blazed up full, unmasked and 
unrestrained. 

‘ Come nearer,’ said Charlotte as Ulrica approached the 
bed. 

‘ Nearer still.’ Her voice shook with impatience. ^ Not 
there, no, the light is at your back ; I want to be able to 
see your face.’ 

Ulrica moved round to the spot she indicated. 

‘Tell me,’ and she looked up into Ulrica’s face with 
curiously cunning blue eyes, ‘ do you like being rich ? ’ 

‘ Of course I do,’ said Ulrica readily, speaking as one 
might speak to an mireasonable child. ‘ I think everybody 
likes being rich.’ 

‘ And you think you are very rich, do you not ? ’ 

‘ Possibly so. Didn’t you say just now that you wanted 
to show me something ? Because when you have done I 
think I had better shut the shutters again and you might 
try to get to sleep.’ 

‘ Immediately. How much money do you imagine that 
you have got ? ’ She spoke huskily, with pauses after every 
two or three words, yet perfectly audibly. 

‘ I can’t tell you exactly. More than I know what to 
do with, at any rate.’ 

‘ How amusing it is to hear you talk,’ said Charlotte, very 
quietly and very distinctly, ‘ when all the time you are a 
beggar.’ She had laid one arm behind her head and looked 
up at Ulrica with half-closed eyes, a cold, cruel smile curv- 
ing her bloodless lips. 

‘Am I ? Well, I think that a beggar with seventy thou- 
sand a year — or is it eighty 1 — is not much to be pitied.’ 

‘ But you have not got eighty thousand a year, you have 
got — simply nothing at all. Just what you had the day 
you first came to Morton — the clothes on your back — that 
was about all, was it not ? ’ 

‘Dear me!’ said Ulrica, smiling a little at the curious 
shape Charlotte’s delirious fancies were taking ; ‘ has the 
Nevyll fortune gone quite to smash?’ 


402 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

'Not at all, it is all there, but it does not belong to you ; 
it never belonged to you for a moment.’ 

‘ Doesn’t it ? This is very funny. Who on earth does 
it belong to, then ? ’ 

Charlotte paused for one little moment, as though loath 
to cut short the pleasure she was enjoying. 

‘ It belongs to Gilbert,’ she said at last, with a sort of de- 
liberate slowness, a drawl that was almost ludicrous in its 
exaggeration. ‘To Sir Gilbert Nevyll, my husband. You 
have heard of him, I daresay. I think you even told me 
that you had met him.’ 

‘ But he is dead,’ answered Ulrica sadly ; ‘ he died in the 
fire, you know.’ 

Charlotte said nothing this time, but remained looking 
up into Ulrica’s face, the same cunning glitter in her eye, 
the same cruel smile upon her lips. 

‘ He is dead,’ repeated Ulrica, beginning to tremble, she 
knew not why. ‘ You know as well as I that he is dead. 
What makes you bring up his name now ? ’ 

‘ He was not burnt in the fire, he is not dead ; he is alive 
at this moment.’ 

‘ Take care,’ said Ulrica, after a moment of dead silence. 
‘You don’t know what that means.’ 

‘ Don’t I ? But I do. It means that you are a beggar.’ 

‘ I don’t believe you,’ said the other under her breath ; 
‘ you are raving.’ 

‘ Of course you don’t believe me. Nobody ever believes 
what they don’t want to believe. Luckily, I can prove it. 
Go to that writing-table, please, and open the drawer ; here 
is the key. The right-hand drawer, second from the top. 
It is empty, all except one letter. Bring me that letter, 
please.’ 

Ulrica took the key from Charlotte mechanically, and 
mechanically walked to the writing-table. The key fitted 
and the letter was there, just as Charlotte had said. Until 
this moment it had not even occurred to Ulrica to believe 
that the sick woman could be in her right senses ; the sight 
of that letter, lying so exactly as Charlotte had described, 
was the first thing to give her a shock of — she knew not 
exactly what ; it could not be called fear, though she was 


charlotte’s last failure. 


403 


still trembling, senselessly ; nor was it hope, for she had not 
yet begun to believe. All that she understood at this 
moment was that Charlotte was not, as she supposed, talk- 
ing in delirium. The inference ? She did not dare to look 
so far. With the letter in her hand she walked back 
towards the bed, feeling rather dizzy. She had noticed at 
the very moment that her eyes fell on it that it was the same 
letter which she had held in her hand once before, and 
which had momentarily arrested her attention : the letter 
with the French postmark and the curiously stiff hand- 
writing on the cover — the same which had reached Lady 
Nevyll on the evening of the ice-ball. 

Charlotte was still lying with her head propped on her 
arm, the icy smile still stamped on her lips, and apparently 
never having faded for a moment. 

‘ No, thank you,’ she said, as Ulrica held the letter 
towards her, ‘ I know it by heart. I don’t want to read it 
myself, I want to see read it.’ 

Then, in utter bewilderment, still standing by Charlotte’s 
bed, closely watched by her ea^er eyes, not knowing what 
to expect, having scarcely shaped a guess in her mind, 
Ulrica took the letter from the envelope and read: — 

‘ June 18, 1883. 

' Whether I am acting wisely or not in taking the step I 
have resolved on I do not know. At this moment I am 
dead to the world, and dead to you, and personally I 
should have greatly preferred to remain dead, but circum- 
stances threaten to become too strong for me. Do not be 
alarmed — I have no intention of reappearing in your life, 
and, unless you choose it, no one but yourself need ever 
know that I did not find a nameless grave in the Vienna 
fire. It was not my fault that I did not, God knows! 
Judging from the tone of our last interview, I imagine that 
I shall be able to continue my present existence undis- 
turbed by any overwhelming desire on your part to see my 
face again. But to come briefly to the object of this let- 
ter: though virtually dead, I am, strangely enough, 
not utterly out of reach of English newspapers, and 
from one of these I have lately learnt that the widow of 


404 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

the unfortunate Gilbert Nevyll is about to unite her lot with 
that of a certain Mr. Rockingham. That under these 
circumstances this communication will be to you a painful 
shock, I am well aware, but as an honest man, even though 
a supposed-to-be-dead one, I have no choice left. It is 
the only means of saving you from a much more painful 
shock in the future, for as I am not contemplating suicide, 
and as, despite the efforts to remain perdu which I intend 
to continue, the discovery of my existence any day is a 
mere matter of accident, I do not think it would be fair to 
you to let you walk blindfolded into bigamy. For the rest, 
act as you think fit ; in taking the bandage from your eyes 
I believe that my duty is performed. 

‘ As to how I come to be writing to you at all, instead of 
lying in that nameless grave which by common consent has 
been assigned to me, as well as to the motives which have 
prompted me to the course of action I am now pursuing, 
no doubt you will forgive my reticence on the subject. 
When last I saw you, you told me, if I remember rightly, 
that I am eccentric ; put it down to my eccentricity, by all 
means. I imagine that the mere fact of my existence will 
cause you such a disagreeable surprise that in itself it will 
overshadow all curiosity as to details. 

'Gilbert Nevyll.’ 

Ulrica’s eyes followed the words closely down to the very 
signature, and yet in this first moment of bewilderment the 
sense of them scarcely quite penetrated to her brain. 
Neither was it necessary that it should do so; the hand- 
writing was enough, for in the moment she had unfolded the 
paper she had, with a shock of awful joy, recognised that 
the address on the envelope had been, as she guessed, dis- 
guised. It was the characteristic sweep of the C’s, the 
peculiar crossing of the t’s that bore in the truth upon her 
mind far more than the contents of the letter. As she 
stood there immovable, her eyes on the sheet which rustled 
faintly in her hand, it seemed as though, not only that 
watchful woman beside her, but even the very air around, 
were holding its breath in expectation of what was to come. 
The sleeping house was only just beginning to stir ; a door 


charlotte’s last failure. 


405 


was being unlocked downstairs, and the sweep of a distant 
broom, wielded by the hands of some exceptionally early 
rising housemaid, was to be heard at the far end of the 
passage. 

When Ulrica, with staring eyes and parted lips, had 
reached the last word on the page she staggered and fell, 
with a cry so sharp that it might have been of horror, upon 
the chair beside her, flinging her arms over the back and 
hiding her face upon them. 

‘ Do you understand now why I am glad to die ? ’ laughed 
Charlotte exultingly. * I couldn’t speak till I knew I was 
dying, because I never could have borne to see that man 
again. Do you feel my revenge at last? ’ 

She struggled into a sitting posture, her voice rising sharp 
and high in the excitement which had now grown uncon- 
trollable. 

‘ Do you still think that he will marry you ? I know him 
better ; he loves you, yes, but he loved me too, and yet he 
gave me up when I was poor ; he will give you up, now that 
you are poor— ^oh, I know him. Do you understand now, 
how I have struggled ? I thought of telling Basil first, 
but that would not have been the same ; I wanted to see 
your face, I wanted to taste my revenge, to — ’ 

She broke off suddenly, with the very words upon her lips. 
Ulrica had raised her face from the back of the chair where 
it had lain buried. 

^ What do you mean ? ’ asked Charlotte, her lips dropping 
suddenly apart. 

‘Thank God! Thank God! He is alive, that is 
enough ; oh, thank God ! ’ 

It was all that Ulrica could say; she said it over again 
in a reiteration that sounded senseless. That look of stony 
astonishment which had borne the appearance of dismay 
was melted now ; the tears were running down her cheeks, 
but they were tears of an almost ecstatic joy. There was 
no possibility of mistaking their source. 

‘ What do you mean ? ’ asked Charlotte again, almost 
stupidly, having stared at her for a minute, wide-eyed and 
open-mouthed. ‘ What are you thanking God for ?’ 

‘ For having given him back, for having spared him. 


4o6 a queen of curds and cream. 

God has been very merciful, but oh, Gilbert, Gilbert, how 
cruel you have been ! ’ . 

‘ Gilbert f I don’t quite understand. Is it not Basil 
whom you love f ’ 

Despite the gloom of that prophetic shadow which 
brooded over the sick-chamber, Ulrica burst into a loud 
laugh. The idea of her being in love with Basil was too 
much for her overstrained nerves. 

‘ Mr. Rockingham? Oh, good gracious! Oh, how ter- 
ribly funny! Don’t you know that it is Gilbert who has 
driven me almost mad by pretending to be dead ? That 
for two years past I have understood nothing, felt nothing, 
breathed nothing but Gilbert? No, no, of course, how 
could you know? It is Gilbert whom I love, my cousin, 
your husband — oh, what am I saying? Thank God! 
Thank God!’ 

‘ Then this too is a failure,’ said Charlotte in a curiously 
dry, flat voice, as she sank back rigid among her pillows. 

Ulrica seemed to have forgotten her existence. With 
those tears of happiness still running down her cheeks and 
the letter half-crushed in her hand, she walked unsteadily 
to the window. A sort of mental drunkenness had come 
over her ; she clutched the sill with her two hands in order 
to keep upright, and leant her forehead against the pane. 
The last five minutes had transformed the scene outside 
so as to make it scarcely recognisable. The first ray had 
overshot the brim of the horizon, and, as under the touch 
of a fairy wand, the dull grey drops had been turned to 
priceless gems, the ivy along the house-wall was alive with 
the flutter of birds. Yet what was it all to the change 
which had come over her life since she had looked out on 
this same prospect just now ? 

It was Charlotte’s voice that roused her from her trance. 
She had started up again from out of her rigid posture, 
and with burning cheeks and fever-stricken eyes was gaz- 
ing wildly about her. 

‘ Ah, you are here still ? ’ she uttered rapidly. ‘ I thought 
you were gone to see after your own affairs ; you imagine 
I am as good as dead already, do you not ? But no, no, 
I am not dead yet — I do not want to die now — why 


THE BEGGAR-MAID. 


407 

should I ? There are two people in the world whom I 
hate, my death will make them happy — no, no, it would 
be madness to die now ; I want to live in order to rob 
them of their happiness. Do you hear? I want to live, 
Send for Sir William Parner — why is Sir William Pamer 
not here yet ? You said that he might yet give hope. Why 
don’t you send for him ? ’ and she clutched at Ulrica’s arm. 

‘ I have sent for him,’ said Ulrica as she sought to un- 
clasp Charlotte’s fingers. ^ Be quiet ; I shall not let you die, 
if I can help it.’ 

‘Swear that you will not! You said that you would 
nurse me. I shall do everything that is required of me ; I 
shall be quite still, I shall not speak a word, only don’t let 
me die 1 I want to live, I want to live ! ’ 


CHAPTER XLII. 

THE BEGGAR-MAID. 

She wanted to live, but the decree had gone forth that 
she must die. 

Though Sir William Pamer arrived punctually, it was 
only to cast a haughtily inquiring glance at his lesser 
colleague — a glance which seemed to say : ‘ What on earth 
has made- you waste my precious time by sending for me ? ’ 
And before another dawn had risen, that despairing hold 
upon life had perforce been relaxed, and poor Charlotte, 
with all. her spasmodic passion, her sterile cravings, her 
ineffectual vehemence, had brought her unsatisfactory life 
to an unsatisfactory close. 

On her last evening upon earth Mr. Rockingham was, 
at her request, summoned to her side — he was staying at 
the Morton inn hard by, having telegraphed for extension 
of leave on the morning after the catastrophe on the 
‘ marsh ’ ; but what passed between these old lovers during 
the five minutes that the interview lasted was never known 
in its details. 

Until all was over Ulrica stood firm to her post. After 


4o8 a queen of curds and cream. 

the one irrepressible burst of excitement a great and solemn 
quiet had come over her, partly, no doubt, the effect of 
bodily exhaustion, for it was now four days since the event- 
ful evening on the ‘ marsh,’ and the four nights had been 
broken and disturbed. She had spoken to no one yet of 
the contents of that letter which Charlotte had shown her, 
and it was not till the day after the funeral that she sent 
for Mr. Dunnet. 

Mr. Dunnet spent an hour closeted with Countess Eldrin- 
gen, and left her presence with a countenance so deeply 
disturbed that the footman who showed him to his carriage 
felt it incumbent on him to carry the result of his observa- 
tions to the servants’ hall, where it afforded food for num- 
berless surmises. 

‘The — most — extraordinary — thing that ever came 
within my experience,’ Mr. Dunnet kept repeating to him- 
self as he drove away from the door, slapping his two 
knees alternately, and occasionally, by way of a change, 
running his ten fingers through his wreath of hair. ‘ And 
after the care with which we conducted the investigation! 
Supposing it’s a hoax I ’ But with a shake of his perplexed 
head he rejected the idea of the hoax, for he knew Sir Gil- 
bert’s writing as well as Ulrica did, if not better, and the 
evidence of that letter which she had showed him was 
simply unassailable. Without that letter spread under his 
very eyes he never would have consented to accept the 
resignation which she had just tendered to him of all the 
Nevyll possessions, beginning with the keys of the safe 
and ending with the very rings which, despite his demur- 
ring, she had pulled off her fingers. 

‘You surely don’t expect me to wear other people’s 
jewels ? ’ she asked, smiling into his face with a serenity 
which only perplexed him the more. ‘ Don’t you under- 
stand that I am an impostor, an adventuress? Until I 
was given this letter to read I was an innocent impostor, 
but from this moment onward I become a guilty one. 
How can you reconcile it with your duty to encourage an 
impostor ? You will have to leave me the travelling money, 
of course, but that is only because I couldn’t get away from 
here otherwise.’ 


THE BEGGAR-MAID. 


409 

* Travelling money ? ’ said Mr. Dunnet, in sore distress. 
‘ I entreat you to do nothing precipitate. Surely you will 
wait until — ’ 

‘ No, I will wait for nothing. Why, every day that I pass 
under the roof of Morton Hall as its mistress should by 
rights be brought to the notice of the police. I shall leave 
before the end of the week.’ 

‘ But where on earth will you go toV 

‘ Back to where I came from.’ 

‘ But Countess, Countess,’ groaned the family lawyer, 
striding up and down the room in growing agitation, ‘ do 
you not see that by your abrupt withdrawal from the scene 
my position becomes most painful ? ’ 

‘ Possibly. But by my remaining on the scene my own 
position would be considerably more painful.’ 

‘ This letter does nothing but prove Sir Gilbert’s exist- 
ence ; it does not give us the shadow of a clew to his where- 
abouts. The only thing to go by is the Paris postmark, 
and that simply tells us that wherever he may have chosen 
to hide himself away it certainly is at Paris. He may 
be at the antipodes for aught we know.’ 

^ You must look for him,’ said Ulrica gently, whereupon 
Mr. Dunnet relapsed into a discouraged silence. He had 
looked for him once before, and how signal a failure that 
attempt had been was proved by the letter with the Paris 
postmark. For a man in whom loyalty to his employers 
stood in the stead of all earthly passions, the position was 
undoubtedly acutely embarrassing. To whom was his 
loyalty due now ? To the man who had voluntarily ab- 
dicated his rights ? Or to this young woman who smilingly 
designated herself as an adventuress ? 

‘The — most — extraordinary — thing,’ he repeated again 
and again, with four distinct gasps of astonishment, as he 
looked back at the interview. ‘And’ the most extraordi- 
nary part of the extraordinary thing is that she doesn’t 
seem to mind it a bit.’ 

Though Ulrica had spoken in a general way to Mr. Dun- 
net of leaving before the end of the week, her plans had in 
reality already assumed a much more definite shape. 
Scarcely was the back of the family lawyer well turned 


410 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

when she proceeded to pack her box — not one of the ele- 
gant trunks fitted up with all the luxurious appointments 
of the age which had accompanied her back from London, 
but the little shabby old box containing the greater part of 
her former possessions, and which had been forwarded to 
her from Glockenau last autumn, at the time when she 
formed the resolution of not returning to Austria. She did 
her packing with closed doors, and it was not till the last 
thing at night that the brougham was ordered to meet 
the eight o’clock train next morning. Her escape from 
Morton was, if possible, not to be discovered until she was 
safe out of reach. 

Punctually at half-past seven she was stealing down the 
big staircase with her veil pulled over her face. The 
household was not well awake ; the big hall in which the 
two long rows of servants had astonished her so much on 
the evening when she had taken possession of Morton 
Hall now stood deserted ; yet with what a different step 
she crossed it to-day than she had crossed it then! How 
much more beautiful the Morton Park seemed to her now 
that she stood on the doorstep, gazing at the glorious 
glades, and knowing herself to be a beggar, than on that 
day when she had first set eyes on its splendours believing 
that they were all her own! ‘He lives! He lives!’ It 
was the constant undercurrent of her thoughts, ringing like 
a melody night and day through her brain and through her 
heart. 

‘ Now for Glockenau! ’ And she drew a deep breath as 
the door shut behind her and they bowled out smoothly on 
to the gravel. 

But the road to Glockenau was not quite so open as she 
had imagined. There was one more obstacle in the path 
to be cleared, one more duty to be performed, the last 
somewhat bitter fruit to be gathered of a seed which had 
been sown perversely and at random. 

Already when Ulrica emerged on to the little narrow 
platform of the Morton station, and perceived that its only 
occupant was a well-dressed gentleman standing at the 
extreme end with his back towards her, she was aware of 
a sinking about the heart, and when he turned and she saw 


THE BEGGAR-MAID. 


411 

that she had rightly identified that prosperous breadth of 
shoulder, there was nothing to do but to resign herself to 
her fate. 

Mr. Rockingham’s face, as he advanced down the plat- 
form towards Ulrica, was stamped with the austere gravity 
of the man who has wound himself up to a pitch. It was 
not the expression of the anxious lover, nor was it that of 
the lover who rejoices over the happiness which lies just 
within' his grasp; no, it was the look of one who after 
much self-questioning and searching of soul has come to a 
resolution and means rigidly to adhere to it. In truth, it 
had taken him eight full days to ripen the resolve, and the 
chance discovery of how very nearly the opportunity for 
acting upon it had slipped through his fingers had only 
added to the air of desperate resolution which sat upon his 
features. By what chance Mr. Rockingham had got scent 
of her proposed flight Ulrica never knew. Lovers, even 
such lovers as he, have got ways and means of their own 
of following the movements of those whom they adore. 

Considering that at the moment when Ulrica stepped on 
to the platform the train was due in exactly six minutes, 
Mr. Rockingham wisely lost no time in preambles. He 
waited only until they were out of earshot of the spot 
where the solitary porter of the place was mounting guard 
over Ulrica’s shabby trunk, and then, in a voice which had 
wonderfully few catches in it, he tendered her an offer of 
his hand and of his heart. He had felt drawn towards 
her, he explained, ever since the moment of their first 
meeting ; he admired her deeply ; and he believed that 
she possessed qualities which would enable her to fill the 
position required of her and to ensure his personal happiness. 

Ulrica was more disturbed than she could have believed 
possible. In theory this so choice and measured speech 
would have been a delicious joke to laugh over, but, alas! 
she felt too guilty even to smile. With head sunk upon 
her breast and hands nervously clasping and unclasping, 
she listened to the select utterances of her wooer. 

‘ I — I thank you,’ she said, when he had successfully 
piloted himself to a full-stop — it could not be called a point 
of interrogation. ‘What you say is most flattering. You 


412 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

speak much more kindly of me than I deserve. But what 
you wish is quite impossible — for many reasons. I will 
tell you one of the reasons if you like : I would not suit 
you so well as you suppose ; my position is no longer what 
it was, I am not the mistress of Morton Hall, I am a beg- 
gar. My cousin — ’ 

" I know ; you need tell me nothing. She disclosed to 
me the secret on the evening before her death.’ 

Ulrica glanced up at him in genuine surprise. 

^ And you mean that — ’ 

‘ I mean that I am well enough off to marry even a 
penniless wife.’ 

This surely would be the moment when — but for the 
presence of the station-master, who had emerged from his 
office to cast an eye in the direction of the expected train 
— this fortunate beggar-maid should have cast herself down 
in rapturous thanks at the feet of so generous a king 
Cophetua. 

But the beggar-maid’s head only sank a little lower on 
her breast. Despite the flavour of absurdity about the 
situation, she felt strangely touched. So, after all, she had 
rated this man below his worth. 

understand,’ she said in a low voice. 'You are very 
generous. You want to stand by me even though I have 
fallen from my place in the world ; but I could never accept 
such a sacrifice. There,’ and she breathed a sigh of relief, 
' they are signalling my train.’ 

Mr. Rockingham gave the favourite jerk to his collar, 
but the gesture was not quite so steady as usual. 

‘A sacrifice ? ’ he repeated in a tone of some perplexity. 
‘ That depends, you know — ’ 

The sharp clang of the station bell ringing out close 
behind him cut short his words. Indeed, just for the 
moment, he appeared to have run rather short of that com- 
modity. For this especial turn of events there had been no 
fitting speech prepared. It was altogether too unforeseen. 
In sight of that black smoky monster in the distance bear- 
ing down steadily upon the station it became difficult to 
collect his ideas sufficiently for the occasion, and the 
glimpse of Ulrica’s downcast profile, with the guilty red 


THE BEGGAR-MAID. 


413 


flush and the lowered eyelashes, which was all that the 
thick veil afforded him, put the finishing touch to the con- 
fusion of this otherwise able diplomat’s intellect. What 
was that she had said ? A sacrifice 1 Even as the word 
sounded in his ear he became aware, to his considerable 
surprise and even annoyance, that there was no meaning 
in it. A sacrifice — yes, of course, it stood to reason that 
the sacrifice should have been a great, even a heroic one. 
And yet — 

Clang! went the station bell again, and the smoky 
monster, grown to its full size, was puffing alongside already. 
Mr. Rockingham, not quite aware of what he was doing, 
found himself walking rapidly down the platform by Ul- 
rica’s side, and talking in breathless haste. His equanimity 
had forsaken him, and with it all his small affectations of 
manner. In this moment he rose, or — as he himself 
would probably have put it — sunk to the level of the ordi- 
nary, average lover. Fortune, position, the qualifications 
of an ambassadress, in this moment they vanished from 
his mind. He was aware of nothing but that face alongside, 
with the shadow of the eyelashes upon the burning cheek. 
His own face had grown white from excitement. 

‘ I know, I know,’ whispered Ulrica hurriedly, even while 
making her way towards a compartment she had spied as 
being empty. ' Forgive me, Mr. Rockingham, you have 
muclf to forgive me for ; you will find some one some day 
who will suit you far, far better than I ever would have done. 
It cannot be. I gave away my heart long ago, and I have 
never been able to take it back again. Third class for 
London, please, is this right ? ’ Bang, clang, whistle, puff 
— the doors have clapped to, the train is in motion, and 
Mr. Rockingham, feeling as though the world had suddenly 
turned upside down, found himself standing alone on the 
platform by the Morton station. 

The idea of the beggar-maid having thus given King 
Cophetua the slip, and in a third-class carriage, too! 

It would be somewhat stretching a point to say that he 
was broken-hearted, for the hearts of the Basil Rocking- 
hams of the world are not made of brittle stuff ; but un- 
doubtedly he was stunned. Though the chances are that 


414 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

Ulrica’s prophesy will be fulfilled, and that he will some 
day find some one satisfactorily to fill the much coveted 
post of ambassadress, yet it will take him some time to re- 
cover from the shock of the first failure that has ever met 
him in his successful career. 

The road to Glockenau was now indeed clear, Mr. 
Rockingham having been the last obstacle on the path ; but 
though she travelled day and night, the journey was all too 
long for Ulrica’s impatience, for from the moment that she 
had found herself fairly under way there had come over 
her a devouring wish to see her old haunts once more, an 
absolute hunger after the scent of the pine woods. 

Despite this impatience there was a great peace in her 
soul. ‘He lives! He lives!’ — never for a moment was 
that sweet melody silent. On what spot of the earth he 
might be wandering, whether she would ever see his face 
again, whether he loved her still, all these were things 
which her thoughts had scarcely yet skimmed. She had 
no hopes, no plans, no claim to make on the future ; it was 
enough to know that he trod the same earth which she 
trod, that the same sun and the same moon shone on them 
both, that the cold grave had him not, that those eyes 
which had gazed so deep into hers had not fallen into cor- 
ruption. 

It was strange how this new great peace which wanted 
all her heart to itself would not suffer near it even the 
slightest remnant of the old bitter feeling which had dwelt 
there so long. ‘ Perhaps, my dear, he did not mean it.’ 
The plea used by Mrs. Meades during the conversation on 
the morrow of the ice-ball was not marked by any particu- 
lar force of logic, and yet to Ulrica it had been wonder- 
fully consoling. For some reason which she could not 
explain, she felt quite sure now that Gilbert had not ‘ meant ’ 
to be so false as she had accused him of being. 

The dust of the journey was thick upon her clothes and 
upon her hair when, after two days of rattling and suffo- 
cation, she said good-bye to the railway. There was an 
hour yet before the well-known Stellwagen would be ready 
to start on its well-known route, and, having had her trunk 
conveyed to the inn, Ulrica proceeded to effect a change 


THE BEGGAR-MAID. 


415 


of toilet. Very tenderly, very lovingly did she lift out of 
the depth of the box the various articles which belonged 
to her peasant attire, and which had lain there ever since 
the landlady of the ‘ Golden Sun ’ had packed them up to 
follow Ulrica to England. Sadly creased were they with 
their long repose, and rather limp to the touch, but that did 
not make them any less fair in Ulrica’s eyes. She was be- 
ginning to feel so near home now, that the fashionably cut 
gown in which she had travelled oppressed her with a sense 
of incongruity. Why, she could see the very mountain- 
peaks already which had formed her daily panorama from 
the windows of the Marienhof ; and was not the river, which 
here on the plain spread its waters so broadly and peace- 
ably, laden with messages from Glockenau ? As well as 
she couM she shook out the coarse woollen skirt and 
plucked at the linen sleeves to rouse them from their 
apathy. Then she tied the black silk handkerchief round 
her head and smiled at herself in the glass as she did so. 
After all, it suited her better than any head-dress she had 
worn since, better than the wreath of rowan berries, and 
better, far better, than the diamond star which had glittered 
on the forehead of the ice-queen. 

‘ And yet it is shockingly tied,’ said Ulrica, shaking her 
head at herself ; ‘ I shall have to work very hard to get 
my fingers back into practice — in this and in everything 
else.’ 

The postilion was just leading the horses from the stables 
when the ex-heiress to the Nevyll fortunes, metamorphosed 
once more into the Grafin, stood on the steps of the inn 
in her crumpled peasant dress, shading her eyes with her 
hand as she gazed towards the mountains whither she was 
bound. 


27 


4i6 


A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

COMING HOME. 

It was drawing near to sunset when the yellow vehicle 
bumped round the last turn of the road and the Glock- 
enau church-spire came into sight. The village lay bathed 
in the golden haze of evening. 

Ulrica did not wait till the door of the ' Golden Sun ’ was 
reached; at thought of the meeting with the keen-eyed 
landlady and of the clamour that would arise among her 
peasant proteges, a sudden fit of shyness had come over her. 
They were still within a couple of hundred yards of the 
inn when she begged the postilion to draw up, and hastily 
descended the rickety step. 

Turning her face back the way they had just come, she 
commenced to walk slowly down the street towards the 
Marienhof, of whose walls she had only had a glimpse in 
passing, looking the while curiously about her to the right 
and to the left, searching for the old landmarks and dis- 
covering new ones at every step. Even at the moment 
of alighting she had noted that the fantastically rayed 
sun which hung as signboard over the door of the inn 
had received a new coat of gilding since last she had set 
eyes upon it. And all down the village street these signs 
of the flight of time were manifest. Here, surely, where 
this spick-and-span bam now stood, there had once been 
a rickety pigstye ; and, ah ! so the Distelbauer had actually 
afforded himself a new thatch-roof in place of the old one 
which had latterly been dropping off in flakes. How 
much breath had she wasted in attempting to persuade him 
to this step! Strange that he should have come round to 
her opinion when she was no longer there to enforce it. 

Then the children, what a shove these sixteen months 
had given them! A sturdy, rosy-cheeked urchin whom 
she accosted under the impression that he could be no 
other than the Apfelbauefs Fritzl tiumed out to belong to 


COMING HOME. 


417 


the Apfelbauer indeed, but to be Gustl, grown into the very 
semblance of his elder brother. 

‘ Griiss Gott / ’ she called out, recognising in a little bent 
old woman who was coming down the road one of the 
most rheumatic and most grateful of her patients. 

The little bent old woman stopped short with a waver- 
ing movement, and with a look almost of consternation 
upon her shrunken features She was far too much as- 
tonished to return the salutation. As the tall figure with 
the light, elastic step passed down the road, she steadied 
herself upon her stick and gazed after her. If it had not 
been broad daylight the rheumatic Liesl could almost have 
sworn that she had seen the ghost of the Grafin. It is 
true she had not heard that the Grafin was dead, but she 
had gone to a country called England, which to Liesl’s 
mind conveyed much the same idea. She supposed that in 
England they must lay people in very narrow graves, which 
would account for the creased appearance of this par- 
ticular ghost. 

Out of the sight of Liesl’s dim eyes did Ulrica pass, be- 
yond the last house, and ever nearer to the church. All 
the little humpbacked fields that nestled up there on the 
confines of the forest were striped with wavy ridges of new- 
cut hay, and the air in the whole valley was penetrated 
with its scent. 

An irresistible desire was drawing Ulrica straight towards 
the Marienhof. Would it, too, be changed, as so much 
in the village was changed ? The road which ran under its 
walls was so deep and so narrow that, crane her neck as she 
: would, she had not been able to get anything like a com- 
prehensive view of it through the limited window of the 
Stellwagen. It might be gone to ruin for anything she 
knew, or, at any rate, have sunk back again into the state 
of desolation in which she had first made its acquaintance. 

A little before she reached the church, just on the same 
spot on which she had stood still in consternation on the 
} morning after the flood, Ulrica got the first satisfactory 
I sight of her old home. Yes, it, too, was changed, and the 
i change was for the better. This substantial bulwark of 
j granite which now surrounded the little domain quite out- 


4i8 a queen of curds and cream. 

shone the memory of that rickety conglomeration of bricks 
long since washed away by the waters. The shutters, too, 
were freshly painted, and they stood open ; apparently the 
place was inhabited. If the days of the virtuous dairyman 
had indeed been revived, as these symptoms seemed to 
imply, it was evident that the new I^arrer was luckier in 
his choice of tenants than poor Pater Sepp had ever been. 

The little steep weed-grown lane which ran beside the 
church-yard wall was unchanged, but the gate was new. 
Ulrica laid her hand upon it and gave a gentle push ; it 
was unbarred, and she entered the enclosed space unchal- 
lenged. The moment she found herself within her steps 
slackened unconsciously ; she trod as softly as though she 
were on consecrated ground. 

The little toy-house to the left had grown a shade shab- 
bier, a shade less like a toy-house than it had formerly 
been ; but it was not in that direction that Ulrica looked, it 
was to the right that her eyes turned instinctively, to where 
between the fruit-trees she could just catch sight of the 
older house, with its regular eaves and rambling balcony. 

On all sides the same signs of care and order — every 
mark of the wreck of two years ago rubbed out : the gaps 
in the orchard filled up, the paths and palings resuscitated. 
By dint of kissing them all day long the sun had succeeded 
in burning a faint tinge of colour into the cool green cheeks 
of the apples that hung in thick clusters on the branches, 
just within reach of Ulrica’s hand. With eyes that roamed 
ever more curiously from side to side, and feet that moved 
ever slower, she advanced step by step. She had reached 
the garden now, her garden, the very same she had tended 
so carefully, risen up again from the dead, such as she 
had not seen it since the evening before the fatal storm. 
It was not without a shock of joyful surprise that she 
recognised many details of resemblance, even to the ar- 
rangement of the chief among the flower-beds. And 
was it not almost as though she, too, on her side, were 
being recognised and welcomed home ? As she advanced 
up the narrow gravel path which led straight to the hos- 
pitably open house-door, the tall white lilies on either side 
bowed stiffly but respectfully, the red and the pink roses 


COMING HOME. 


419 


nodded familiarly ; the pansy watched her with its quiet 
eye, the vine tendrils beckoned from the wall, and even 
the little daisies in the grass cur^eyed in the evening- 
breeze like well-drilled village children. Welcome, welcome 
home ! was what one and all said. That open door seemed 
to be saying it loudest of all, so loudly, indeed, that, having 
come to the end of the gravel path, Ulrica entered with- 
out hesitation, never stopping to ask herself on whom she 
might be intruding. 

She drew a long breath as she looked around her in the 
Stube. This was home indeed. The tables and chairs 
stood exactly as she had left them, even the shelves were 
still in their place. There was no one in the room, but 
signs that the place was inhabited were visible on all sides. 
Ulrica made another step forward. On the shelf where 
she had been used to keep her plates there now was ranged 
a row of books ; and what was that on the peg behind the 
door. A grey wide-awake ? Surely that did not look like 
the head-covering of a virtuous dairyman ! Another step, 
and a fishing-rod was discovered leaning against an angle 
of the wall ; no, whoever lived here, it could surely be no 
peasant. 

She was standing beside the table by this time, and with 
a touch of nervous expectation glanced over the articles 
which lay there strewn about. Some one had been busy 
here very recently, for a half-consumed cigar still showing a 
faint curl of blue smoke reposed on the edge of the table. 
How was it that the pocket-knife lying with open blade 
stirred a certain uneasy feeling of recognition somewhere 
deep down in her memory ? Here, under her very hand, 
there was an open book ; her eye fell on the page and she 
started with surprise, for it was English that was printed 
there. Close beside it lay a sheet of foolscap paper with a 
few lines written upon it. So tumultuously was her heart 
beginning to beat with the dread of something which she 
did not even clearly realise, that the lines upon the paper 
danced before her eyes like things possessed. It was all 
she could do to read the largely written title : ‘ Letters 
from a Pine Forest.’ What did it mean? How could it 
be? What was it? How was it? She could grasp at 


420 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

no clear thought. The only thing that she understood was 
that she must get away, must fly from here if her heart was 
not to choke her with its beating. 

With a panic-stricken movement she turned towards the 
door, but it was too late — a shadow had fallen across the 
threshold, and a man’s figure darkened the light. 

For no more than the space of a dozen heart-beats dfd 
the two stand looking at each other in a dazed silence ; then 
Gilbert Nevyll started forward with arms hungrily out- 
stretched, but before he had reached her he stood still. 
She saw that those silver threads which used so lightly to 
sprinkle his chestnut hair had grown thick about the tem- 
ples, and that the lines round his mouth had cruelly deep- 
ened. There was fire in the eyes which dwelt on her, but 
the head was high and the lips were sternly closed. When 
he spoke it was with a suppressed passion which made his 
voice sound rough and broken. 

‘ Why have you come back ? Why this dress ? What 
made you leave England ? ’ 

Ulrica was trembling so violently that she was forced to 
take hold of the back of a chair which stood near her. 

‘ I had to leave England,’ she answered faintly. ‘ I had 
to give up everything, since I knew you were alive.’ 

‘Ah, so I am betrayed. She has spoken. And you 
want to send me back to my wife and to my fortune, I sup- 
pose ? But it is no use.’ 

Ulrica remained clutching the chair-back and staring at 
him. It had not occurred to her that he might not know. 

‘ What is it ? ’ he asked, startled by her look. ‘ What have 
you come for ? Have you brought me news ? ’ 

‘ I have brought you your freedom,’ she said, just above 
her breath. 

‘ Freedom ? And my wife ? ’ 

‘Your wife is dead.’ 

‘ Dead ? ’ 

‘We buried her last week. Gilbert, if she sinned she 
suffered for it. It was a terrible deathbed to stand beside.’ 

Gilbert turned away without a word, and made a few 
unsteady steps in the room. He had put one hand to his 
head, like a man who is trying to collect his ideas. 


COMING HOME. 


421 


Once only he paced down the length of the room, and 
then Ulrica became conscious that he was standing by her 
side. 

‘ Ulrica,’ he said, in a sort of breathless hurry, for the 
passion within him, up to this instant held in leash, was 
tearing its bonds to tatters, ‘this is no time for empty 
phrases. We both know what this means ; both you and 
I understand that in bringing me my freedom you are 
bringing me yourself. My love, we have waited long 
enough.’ 

And already she had fallen forward on his breast and 
his arms were clasped mightily around her. 

* * * * 4 : # * 

‘ Tell me,’ said Ulrica, when presently they were sitting 
on the bench beside the door, ‘ why have you tortured me 
in this way ? Was it to punish me for loving you that you 
did your best to break my heart ? ’ 

And then Gilbert told her his story since the moment of 
their last parting. He had been in the fire, but, as oc- 
cupier of a box, had been among the first to escape. At 
the moment of the alarm he had jumped to his feet, and, 
acting upon that instinct of life-preservation which is innate 
in all men, had forced his way to the open air. ‘ But 
scarcely had I reached it ’ — so ran his tale — ‘ than I 
asked myself what I had done this for? What could I 
still hope for from this life which I had so uselessly saved ? 
What an opportunity I had lost! I struck myself on the 
forehead for a fool, cursing my own precipitance. It 
needed only that I should have tarried for two minutes, 
perhaps one minute longer in my box, just long enough to 
let the passages get blocked, and by this time it would all 
have been over. I turned my face back towards the burn- 
ing theatre grinding my teeth with rage, and at that mo- 
ment somebody pulled me back by the arm ; I believe 
that in that first moment of enraged disappointment I was 
going to throw myself headlong into the arms of that 
ghastly death from which I had barely escaped. That first 
madness passed, indeed, but still I did not give up the hope 
that the next few hours would yet bring me the end. I 


42 2 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

think I must have been among the first of the volunteers 
who offered their services to the fire brigade, and I am 
quite certain that none of them worked with such a will 
as I. Here at last was a decent way of shuffling off that 
mortal coil which just then I felt to be such a very incon- 
venient appendage, without incurring the odium of suicide. 

' At least that is what I thought. The history of the 
next few hours is not very distinct in my mind, — a hideous 
jumble of ghastly episodes, of penetrating into suffocating 
passages, of bursting open doors behind which half-dis- 
tracted wretches were yelling for help, of dragging lifeless 
burdens down half-burnt staircases, of being all but suffo- 
cated by the smoke, all but scorched by the breath of the 
fire, and yet coming alive through it all, with singed 
clothes and blackened hands and face, it is true, but still 
alive. It was all no use, do what I would — and I was a 
madman that night — Death would have none of me. 

^ It was far on in the night when, just as I reached the 
open air once more, in charge of a fainting woman, two 
well-dressed gentlemen accosted me with a polite inquiry 
as to the stage which the fire had reached, and the proba- 
ble number of people yet within the walls. I gave some 
answer, pretty much at random, looking at them the while 
with a little astonishment. In the midst of all this surging 
crowd of gesticulating, shrieking, groaning men and women, 
the cool politeness of these two strangers could not fail to 
be somewhat surprising. I felt instinctively that these 
were not affectionate relatives inquiring after their missing 
ones, and the next minute proved that I was right. En- 
cumbered as I was by the fainting woman, I remained for 
several minutes chained to the spot, and thus chanced to 
overhear the next few hurried phrases interchanged be- 
tween the two strangers. 

^ “ He certainly went in,” said one. 

‘ “And, so far as it is possible to be sure, he has not 
come out,” replied the other. 

^ “ We had better divide forces,” remarked the first. “ I 
shall watch this entrance, and you keep an eye on the dead 
bodies, though I hope to goodness we won’t find him 
there.” 


COMING HOME. 


423 


'“God prevent it!” replied the other, fervently. “A 
thousand florins reward is not to be had every day; 
though, to be sure, there would always be the chance of 
his having the jewels about his person.” 

‘ “ I believe he’s out of the fire,” wound up the first just 
as they parted ; “ but at any rate, whether he is or not. 
I’ll stake my reputation that to all intents and purposes he 
will henceforward remain dead. Any scoundrel with a 
spark of genius would do so. Why, they’ll never quite 
clear up this night’s work; it’ll be Nice over again. 
What a chance for the disappearance trick! ” 

' By this time I had without difficulty recognised the two 
polite strangers as two detectives. Whether they eventu- 
ally secured the gentleman with the jewels or not I do not 
know, but it was this incident which decided my immediate 
future. 

‘“What a chance for the disappearance trick!” The 
words stuck fast in my mind. Of course this night’s work 
would never be quite cleared up, I had seen enough to 
be sure of that; of course it would be Nice over again, 
with its unidentified dead, its unrecognisable corpses ; and 
even as the two detectives mingled with the crowd, the 
idea darted into my mind that, unless I wanted it, I, too, 
need never return to the world again, any more than that 
thief whom that brace of detectives was hunting. To be 
dead in name would surely be the next best thing to being 
dead in reality. To cut myself loose from the old life, the 
old ties, the old wearisome duties, what an unspeakable 
relief! To cease to be Gilbert Nevyll, what a respite 
from despair!’ 

He paused for a moment, looking towards the sunset sky, 
and his fingers tightened over the hand that lay in his. 

‘ Upon the idea the resolution followed quickly. Instead 
of re-entering the theatre, I waited only till relieved of my 
burden, and then made my way through the crowd and 
got into the first cab I met. I drove straight to the 
Sudbahnhof^ and before sunrise I was a good bit on my 
way to Trieste. My idea was to sail for America so as 
more effectually to disappear, and my choice had fallen on 
Trieste, as being the nearest seaport. By good luck I had 


424 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

about me the supplies just sent to me from England for my 
Oriental journey, and all in English banknotes, so my fan- 
tastical plan was not forced to go to pieces upon any pro- 
saic rock of pecuniary difficulties. 

‘ However, I never got further than the seaport, for it so 
happened that in the very first newspaper which I took up 
in the Trieste Hotel I read the announcement of my 
nephew Ernest Nevyll’s death. I was considerably 
shocked, not even having known of his illness but soon a 
new idea rose up and took exclusive possession of my mind. 
In default of poor Ernest and of myself, the proper person 
to enter into possession of the Nevyll fortunes could be no 
other than you, Ulrica. It was with savage joy that I 
recognised this, and from this moment onwards I discov- 
ered a new interest about the execution of that scheme 
which I had started on the mere impulse of the moment, 
and of which under ordinary circumstances I might very 
likely soon have tired. By remaining dead to the world 
I would force you at last to accept that money which your 
stubborn pride had so often rejected ; I should be no 
longer tortured by the knowledge of your poverty. 

‘ But now I felt that America was too far off ; I must 
remain near enough to take note of events, to watch you 
unperceived, to catch at least a distant reflection of the 
new glory that was to be yours. Instead of sailing for 
New York, I shaved my beard and went to Paris, calling 
myself Mr. Gilbert, and taking up my quarters in suburban 
lodgings. Perhaps it was risky, but the risky-looking 
things are sometimes the safest in reality. I knew my way 
about Paris well enough to avoid my acquaintances, and 
I calculated rightly that no one would think of looking for 
a missing Englishman in such an obvious place as Paris. I 
was in Paris when Mr. Dunnet was looking for me in Vienna, 
and I was in Paris when you at length went to England ; 
and then it was that it occurred to me that there could be 
no better as well as no more comforting hiding-place in 
which to lie buried than this village in which I have been 
so happy and so wretched. 

‘ There is not much more to tell. I came here and took 
up my quarters in this deserted house. It was something 


COMING HOME. 


425 


to live in the atmosphere in which you had lived so long. 
These pine trees, by dint of whispering to me about you, 
almost succeeded in whispering something like calmness 
into my mind. It afforded me a certain pleasure, too — 
bitter, but still a pleasure — to carry on your work, as much 
as possible in your spirit. By the time the wall was built 
and the whole place in order my funds were all gone, and 
since I felt I was too old to learn how to plough fields or 
dig up potatoes I hit upon the idea of writing for the 
papers. It did not answer gloriously, yet gloriously enough 
to eke out the necessaries of life at Glockenau. It is 
wonderful how much it raises a man in his own opinion, to 
have lived on his own labours, even if only for some half- 
dozen months.’ 

He laughed. It was the old hearty laugh she knew so 
well, the memory of which had tortured her so sorely, but 
it was the laugh of an older man. 

And then there fell a long silence between them, while 
her hand still lay in his and their eyes dwelt dreamily upon 
the western sky, where the sun was being drowned in a sea 
of deepest amethyst and palest amber, with flakes of pearly 
foam crowning the rolling cloud-waves. The old elm tree 
beside the house stood there in broad majesty, as though 
all this glory were there to make a background to its 
trembling leaves. 

‘ Ulrica,’ said Gilbert after that silence, ‘ I have told you 
all I have to tell, but you have told me nothing yet. These 
dreary twenty-one months must have had a history for you 
as w^ell as for me.’ 

She shuddered and closed her eyes. 

‘ Let me not think of it. They are lived through, that 
is enough. I have been very unhappy, and I have come 
very near to becoming utterly worthless and utterly bad. 
This is what my history comes to.’ 

She paused for a moment, and then added : 

‘ It was an old woman who saved me. I think she must 
have been sent from heaven by Pater Sepp. How is it 
that people say that there is no good in growing old ? It 
was an old man who saved me from bodily starvation, and 
it was an old woman who kept me from going to mental 


426 A QUEEN OF CURDS AND CREAM. 

ruin. Shall I ever see her again, I wonder, to tell her 
what I owe her f If ever I am in England again — ’ 

‘Yes, Ulrica, you shall see her, we shall find her, you 
and I, we shall thank her — together. Where are you go- 
ing ? ’ for she had risen from the bench and was plucking 
the flowers in the nearest bed. 

She turned, with her hands full of lilies and carnations. 

‘ To one whom I shall never be able to thank again in 
life. Gilbert, will you come with me to Pater Sepp’s 
grave ? ’ 


THE END. 


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From the Uitroductory Note. 

“ Some of my friends who have read in serial form the chronicles that follow pro- 
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Maxw'ell with the vitality that belongs to fiction. Nevertheless, the lad himself, and 
the events which are herein described, seem to have been born of a dream. That 
which is fiction pure and simple in these pages bears to me the stamp of truth, and 
that which is true reads like a clumsy invention. In this matter it is not for me to 
prompt the reader. He must sift the fact from the fiction and label it to suit him- 
self.” 

UNCLE REMUS: his Songs and his Sayings. 

The Folk-lore of the Old Plantation. By Joel Chandler Harris. Il- 
lustrated from Drawings by F. S. Church and J. H. Moser, of Georgia. 
i2mo. Cloth, $1.50. 

‘ ‘ The idea of preserving and publishing these legends in the form in which the 
old plantation negroes actually tell them is altogether one of the happiest literary 
conceptions of the day. And very admirably is the work done. ... In such touches 
lies the charm of this fascinating little volume of legends, which deserves to be placed 
on a level with Reincke Fuchs for its quaint humor, without reference to the ethno- 
logical interest possessed by these stories, as indicating, perhaps, a common origin 
for very widely severed races.” — Lo7idon Spectator. 

“ This is a thoroughly amusing book, and is much the best humorous compila- 
tion that has been put before the American public for many a day.” — Philadelphia 
Telegraph. 



For sale by all booksellers ; or will be sent by mail on receipt of price by the publishers, 

D. APPLETON & CO., 1, 3, & 5 Bond Street, New York. 


' '‘i 

The Last Words of { 
Thomas Carlyle. 


Including “Wotton Reinfred,” Carlyle’s only essay in fiction; 
the “Excursion (Futile Enough) to Paris”; and Letters 
from Thomas Carlyle and Mrs. Carlyle. 

IVith 1^0 r trait 


i2mo. Cloth, gilt top, $1.75. 


“ Wotton Reinfred ” is Carlyle’s only novel. The “ Excursion (Futile Enough) 
to Paris” is a most characteristic account of a journey to Paris in 1851 in com- 
pany with the Brownings, and a visit to Lord Ashburton, furnishing a singularly 
vivid picture of Carlyle’s personality and peculiarities. The letters from Carlyle 
describe the preparation of his “ Frederick the Great.” This important addition 
to Carlyle’s works is the first of liis books to have an American copyright. ' 


“ The interest of ‘ Wotton Reinfred ’ to me is considerable, from 
the sketches which it contains of particular men and women, most 
of whom 1 knew and could, if necessary, identify. The stoiy, too, 
is taken generally from real life, and perhaps Carlyle did not finish it 
from the sense that it could not be published while the persons and 
things could be recognized. That objection to the publication no 
longer exists. Everybody is dead whose likenesses have been drawn, 
and the incidents stated have long been forgotten.” 

— ^James Anthony Froude. 

“ ^ Wotton Reinfred’ is interesting as a historical document. It 
gives Carlyle before he had adopted his peculiar manner, and yet 
there are some^ characteristic bits — especially at the beginning — in the 
Sartor Resartus vein. 1 take it that these are reminiscences of Irving 
and of the Thackeray circle, and there is a curious portrait of Cole- 
ridge, not very thinly veiled. There is enough autobiography, too, 
of interest in its way.” — Leslie Stephen. 

‘‘No complete edition of the Sage of Chelsea will be able to ig- 
nore these manuscripts .” — Pall Mall Gazette. 


D. APPLETON & CO., Publishers, 

I, 3, & 5 Bond Street, New York. \ 













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